DAILY   BREAD 


First  Edition  (500  Copies)  in  Three  Volumes,   1910 
Second  Edition  (1,000  Copies)     ,,  ,,  1911 

Third  Edition  (1,000  Copies)   in  One  Volume  1913 


DAILY   BREAD 


BY 

WILFRID    WILSON    GIBSON 


NEW  YORK 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


By  the  Same  Writer 

FIRES  (1912) 

THOROUGHFARES  (1914) 
BORDERLANDS  (1914) 


Ah  life  moving  to  one  measure — 
Daily  breads  daily  bread — 
Bread  of  life,  and  bread  of  labour, 
Bread  of  bitterness  and  sorrow, 
Hand-to-mouth,  and  no  to-morrow ', 
Dearth  for  housemate,  death  for  neighbour 

"  Yet,  when  all  the  babes  are  fed, 
Love,  are  there  not  crumbs  to  treasure?" 


266957 


TO 
J.  H. 


Saint  Abb's  Haven, 
1908. 


As  one,  at  midnight,  wakened  by  the  call 
Of  golden-plovers  in  their  seaward  flight, 
Who  lies  and  listens,  as  the  clear  notes  fall 
Through  tingling  quiet  of  the  frosty  night — 
Who  lies  and  listens,  till  the  wild  notes  fail ; 
And  then,  in  fancy ',  following  the  flock 
Fares  over  slumbering  hill  and  dreaming  dale, 
Until  he  hears  the  surf  on  reef  and  rock 
Break,  thundering ;  and  all  sense  of  self  is  drowiied 
Within  the  mightier  music  of  the  deep, 
And  he  no  more  recalls  the  piping  sound 
That  startled  him  from  dull,  undreaming  sleep : 
So  I,  first  waking  from  oblivion,  heard, 
With  heart  that  kindled  to  the  call  of  song, 
The  voice  of  young  life,  fluting  like  a  bird, 
And  echoed  that  wild  piping ;  till,  ere  long, 
Lured  onward  by  that  happy,  singing-flight, 
I  caught  the  stormy  summons  of  the  sea, 
And  dared  the  restless  deeps  that,  day  and  night, 
Surge  with  the  life-scng  of  humanity. 


CONTENTS 


The  House  of  Candle? 

On  the  Road 

The  Betrothed     . 

The  Firstborn 

"The  Family's  Pride ; 

The  Garret . 

The  Shirt    . 

The  Mother 

The  Furnace 

The  Child    . 

The  Night-shift  . 

Agatha  Steel 

Mates    . 

The  Operation 

The  Call 

The  Wound  . 

Summer  Dawn 

Holiday 


13 

29 

38 
54 
62 

70 

85 

91 

102 

113 

119 

133 
141 

154 
161 

165 

173 
181 


DAILY    BREAD 


THE    HOUSE    OF    CANDLES 

Scene:  Grisel  Stark's  cottage.  Grisel  Stark  lies 
unconscious  on  the  bed.  Two  neighbours^  Barbara 
Wilson  and  Rebecca  Wood,  stand  watching  her, 
and  whispering  together. 

Barbara.  The  house  was  dark  ; 
And  so  I  knew,  at  once, 
That  something  was  amiss. 

Rebecca.     The  house  was  dark  ? 

Barbara.     No  blink  of  light 
The  window  showed — 

The  window  that  had  blazed,  each  night,  for  years. 
I  stood  a  moment,  wondering,  at  my  door ; 
And  then  I  crossed  the  roadway. 
And  listened  on  the  threshold, 
Before  I  dared  to  knock  ; 
Though,  what  I  feared 
I  could  not  tell. 
It  seemed  so  strange 
To  find  the  house  in  darkness — 

13 


THE   HOUSE    OF   CANDLES 

No  candles  in  the  window, 

And  not  a  glimmer  'neath  the  door. 

And  when  with  quaking  heart, 

At  last  I  knocked, 

And  no  one  answered  me, 

I  raised  the  latch 

And  entered. 

The  room  was  dark  and  silent — 

So  silent  that  I  felt 

As  though  I'd  stumbled  suddenly 

Into  the  house  of  death. 

The  fire  was  out, 

And  not  a  candle  lit ; 

And  you  know  how  the  candles  blazed, 

Night-long,  these  many  years. 

Rebecca.      She  must  have   burned  a  fortune  out  in 
candles. 

Barbara.     And  when,  at  last, 
I'd  fumbled  for  the  matches, 
And  struck  a  light, 
It  only  served  to  show 
The  candlesticks  burnt  empty ; 
And  naught  I  saw  of  Grisel, 
Before  it  flickered  out, 
Although  I  felt  her  in  the  room, 
And  feared  lest  I  should  touch  her 
In  the  dark. 

And  so  I  ran  to  fetch  my  lamp, 
And,  in  its  friendly  light, 

14 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 
I  looked  about  me  with  a  braver  heart, 


-■> 


And  quickly  found  her 

Stretched  before  the  hearth. 

At  first  I  thought  her  dead, 

And  shrank  from  her ; 

For  she  was  ever  cold  and  proud  with  all, 

And  I  had  never  touched  her  hand  before. 

And,  as  I  looked  on  that  lean  hand  outstretched, 

I  wondered  if  that  hand 

Had  done  the  thing — ■ 

The  thing  that  gossip  told  of  it, 

When  first  she  came  to  Morton. 

It  frightened  me ; 

And,  as  I  watched, 

I  seemed  to  see  the  fingers  crooking 

To  clutch  a  baby's  throat ; 

And  yet  I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  them, 

Until  I  realised 

That  only  in  my  fancy  they  had  stirred. 

For  still  the  hand  lay,  limp  and  white ; 

And  soon  I  was  myself  again, 

And  pity  drove  out  fear ; 

And  bending  down  to  lift  that  fallen  head 

I  found  that  still  she  breathed. 

I  loosed  her  bodice  ; 

Then  I  fetched  my  man  • 

And  we  together  lifted  her, 

And  laid  her  on  the  bed — 

It  took  us  all  our  time ; 

15 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

For,  though  she  is  so  slight, 

She  was  a  dead-weight  in  our  hands, 

As  though  we  lifted  more  than  one  weak  body — 

As  if  some  dreadful  burden  bore  her  down. 

Rebecca.     God  knows  what  sins  are  on  her  ! 
How  dared  you  touch  her,  neighbour  ? 
'Twas  madness,  surely. 

Barbara.     I  could  not  leave  her  lying  helpless. 
And,  maybe,  she  is  innocent. 
We  know  that  babes  die  often, 
Though  only  God  knows  why. 
My  firstborn,  Robert,  died.   .  .  . 

Rebecca.     The  innocent  are  not  afraid  of  darkness, 
Nor  waste  a  heifer's  price 
On  candles  in  a  twelvemonth. 

Barbara.     She  never  stirred, 
When  we  had  laid  her  on  the  bed ; 
And  nothing  I  could  do  would  rouse  her. 
I  sent  my  man  to  fetch  the  doctor ; 
But  he  can  scarcely  come 
Ere  daybreak,  even  if  my  man 
Should  chance  to  find  him  in. 
'Twere  dreadful,  should  she  die, 
Before  the  doctor  comes. 

Rebecca.     If  she's  to  die,  she'll  die, 
Whether  he  comes  or  not. 
It's  strange  that  such  as  she 
Should  have  an  easy  end. 

Barbara.     O  neighbour,  you  are  hard  ! 

16 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

What  would  you  have  ? 

Rebecca.     A  murderer.  .  .  . 

Barbara.     Nay,  you  shall  not  in  this  house  ! 
Nothing  was  known. 

Rebecca.     But  you  yourself  have  said, 
These  many  times.  .   .  . 
I  heard  it  from  your  lips. 

Barbara.     Perhaps  we  have  all  wronged  her. 
May  she  not  be  as  innocent 
Of  her  poor  baby's  death, 
As  it.  .  .  . 

Rebecca.     As  it  !     How  can  you  tell 
That  even  it  was  innocent  ? 

Barbara.     The  babe  ! 

Rebecca.     A  bastard  brat, 
You  may  be  sure  ! 
Else,  where  is  her  goodman  ? 
A  woman's  not  worth  much 
Who  comes,  alone,  from  God  knows  where. 
To  a  strange  village,  and  sets  up  a  house, 
Where  she,  within  a  month,  is  brought  to  bed  ; 
And  cannot  name  the  father  of  her  child. 

Barbara.     Cannot  ?     How  do  you  know  ? 
Has  she  told  aught  to  you  ? 

Rebecca.     To  me  ! 
Nay,  not  a  word  ; 
For  she  was  ever  close. 
But,  you  know  well  enough, 
No  man  was  ever  seen  to  cross  her  threshold, 

17 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

By  day  at  all  events. 

God  knows  what  moths  her  candles  singed  ! 

Had  she  been  all  she  should  be, 

What  need  for  secrecy  ? 

Her  silence  proves  her  guilt ; 

And  her  dead  brat  .  .  . 

Barbara.     A  babe  is  still  a  babe, 
Whoever  be  its  father. 

Rebecca.     Aye  .  .  .  and  yet 
She  hadn't  too  much  love  for  it, 
To  throttle  .   .  . 

Barbara.     Nay,  you  shall  not,  neighbour,  here  ! 

Rebecca.     Why  not  ? 
It's  common  knowledge. 
You  know,  as  well  as  I  do, 
How  all  the  village  whispered, 
When  it  died, 
That  she  had  strangled  it. 

Barbara.     Still,  naught  was  known. 

Rebecca.     Why,  I  have  heard  you  speak  the  thing 
Right  out  with  your  own  lips, 
In  Farmer  Thompson's  field, 
And  Grisel  hoeing  not  ten  yards  away  ! 

Barbara.     But  I  was  young  and  thoughtless, 
And  I've  borne  children  of  my  own 
Since  then  .  .  . 
And  seen  my  firstborn  die. 
Oh,  when  we're  young,  we're  hard  of  heart, 
Till  we  ourselves  have  felt 

18 


THE   HOUSE   OF  CANDLES 

A  baby's  fingers  clutching  at  the  breast. 

Rebecca.     Ah,  who  is  hard  and  cruel  now  ? 
You  twit  me  that  I'm  barren, 
And  yet,  I  thank  the  Lord 
That  I'm  not  such  as  she 
Whom  you  befriend. 
Although  I  brought  my  man  no  child, 
At  least  I  bore  no  nameless  children. 

Barbara.     Forgive  my  heedless  words  i 
You  will  not,  neighbour  ? 
It's  ever  careless  words  that  hurt  past  healing. 
The  thought  of  me 
Will  rankle  in  your  heart, 
Because  my  heart, 
That  bears  no  grudge  against  you, 
Let  slip  an  idle  word, 
Beyond  recall. 
But  you, 

Though  you  have  been  denied  so  much, 
Have  been  spared  something,  too  ; 
You  have  not  stood 
Beside  your  firstborn's  grave. 

Rebecca.     Your  patient  stirs. 
You'd  better  keep  your  tenderness  for  her, 
And  not  waste  words  on  me. 
You  know  the  saying  : 
11  Least  said,  is  soonest  mended." 

[She  turns,  as  if  to  go.'] 


x9 


C    2 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

Barbara.     Aye,  she  wakens. 
But  you're  not  going  now  ? 

Rebecca.     Why  should  I  stay  ? 

Barbara.     You  would  not  go  and  leave  me, 
Alone  with  her  ? 
If  she  should  die  ! 

Rebecca.     If  she's  to  die,  she'll  die. 
Fear  not,  she's  not  the  sort 
To  go  before  her  time. 

Barbara.     I  dare  not  bide  alone 

Rebecca.     You  dare  not — you 
Oh,  the  brave  mothers  ! 
Must  the  barren  wife 
Lose  her  night's  rest 
To  tend  two  shiftless  mothers  ? 
For  she, 

The  helpless  wanton  on  the  bed, 
And  you, 

Who  stand  a-tremble  by  her  side, 
Are  mothers  both ; 
While  I— 

I'm  but  a  barren  woman, 
Hard  of  heart. 

Barbara.     I  never  said  so,  neighbour. 
But  go, 

I  do  not  need  you. 
I,  who  have  brought  to  birth, 
Can  look  on  death  alone,  if  need  be. 
I  fear  no  longer. 
Shut  the  door  behind  you. 

20 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

Rebecca.     Nay,  but  I'll  stay. 
Barbara.     Bide  if  you  will, 
But  don't  come  nigh  the  bed. 

Rebecca.     Don't  fear, 
I  would  not  soil  my  hands. 

Barbara.     Your  heart  is  soiled  past  cleansing. 
But  it's  no  time  for  words. 
She'll  die  while  we  are  wrangling. 
She  tries  to  speak. 

[Grisel  Stark  raises  herself  on  the  bed  and  looks 
about  her.] 
Grisel.     Oh  S 
The  great  light ! 

Barbara.     The  light  ? 
It's  but  my  lamp. 
It  hurts  your  eyes  .  .  . 

Grisel.     Nay,  do  not  move  it. 
It's  not  the  lamp  I  mean. 
The  light  is  in  my  heart. 
The  candles  all  are  quenched ; 
Yet  I  fear  nothing  now. 
But  where  am  I  ? 

Barbara.     You're  on  >our  bed, 
In  your  own  house. 

Grisel.     But  you — 
How  do  you  come  here — 
You  and  your  lamp  ? 
I  never  heard  the  latch. 

Barbara.     Nay,  you've  been  ill. 

21 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

I  saw  the  house  in  darkness ; 

And  feared  that  something  was  amiss. 

And  so  I  entered, 

To  find  you  stretched,  unconscious,  by  your  hearth. 

Grisel.     I  must  have  fallen  then. 
Yes,  I've  been  ill  for  years  ; 
But  I  am  better  now, 
And  I  shall  ail  no  more. 
You  say  the  house  was  dark ; 
Yet  it  was  full  of  light — 
The  light  within  my  heart — 

The  light  that  quenched  the  candles  and  my  fears. 
I,  who  have  dwelt  in  darkness, 
Know  the  light, 
As  you  can  never  know  it. 
Since  he  died, 
My  little  babe, 
So  many  years  ago, 
My  heart  has  dwelt  in  darkness. 
And  though  fear  ever  kindled 
Pale  candles  to  dispel  the  night, 
But  little  they  availed ; 
Nor  even  noon  could  drive  away 
That  darkness  from  my  heart — 
My  heart  so  choked  with  bitterness. 
Since  my  babe  died  .  .  . 
Nay,  neighbour,  don't  shrink  back  ! 
These  hands  have  never  done  a  baby  hurt. 
I  know  what's  in  your  mind  ; 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

I  heard  those  dreadful  whisperings, 

In  years  gone  by  ; 

Though  then  I  answered  nothing. 

But,  oh  !  if  you  have  felt 

A  newborn  baby,  cold  against  the  breast. 

You'll  know  I  speak  the  truth. 

Barbara.     I  know. 

Grisel.     Still  .  .  .  you  were  right  to  shrink 
Although  my  hands  are  clean. 
I  killed  the  babe — 
I  killed  it,  in  my  heart, 
Ere  it  was  born. 
I  poisoned  it  with  hate — 
My  hate  of  him  who  had  forsaken  me. 
Why  don't  you  shrink  from  me, 
Now  all  is  told  ? 
Your  eyes  are  kind  ; 
And  I  can  talk  with  you 
As  I  have  talked  with  no  one. 
But,  who's  that — ■ 
There,  in  the  shadow  .  .  . 
Though  it  matters  little  ; 
For  I  would  have  the  whole  world  see 
The  light  that  floods  my  heart. 
When  first  I  left  my  home, 
To  hide  my  shame  from  friendly  eyes, 
And  came  into  this  countryside, 
And  thought  to  bear  the  pang 
And  burden  of  my  misery 

23 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

More  easily,  'mid  strangers, 
My  heart  was  black  against  .  .  . 
But,  even  now, 

Why  should  I  name  that  name, 
Which  once  was  all-in-all  to  me  ! 
And,  that  dark  month 
Before  his  child  was  born, 
I  brooded  on  my  wrongs ; 
And  nursed  hate  in  my  bosom, 
Until  there  was  no  room 
For  any  other  care  within  my  heart. 
Ah,  shut  your  ears, 
If  you  would  hear  no  more  ! 
For  I  must  tell  out  all. 
Your  brow  is  smooth  : 
I  think  you  could  not  hate  : 
And  few  have  known  such  hate  as  mine. 
His  child, 
Within  my  womb, 
Because  it  was  his  child — 
Aye,  even  it, 

My  hatred  would  not  spare, 
But  ever  prayed 

That  it  might  never  look  upon  the  light. 
Nor  draw  a  mortal  breath  ; 
Though  I  myself,  must  perish 
To  keep  the  life  from  it. 
My  time  came ; 
And  I  went  through  all,  alone. 

24 


THE    HOUSE   OF    CANDLES 

Nay,  spare  your  pity,  neighbour  ! 

'T  wasp  my  will. 

I  kept  you  all  at  bay, 

To  serve  my  evil  ends. 

And  little  I  remember  of  those  days, 

Save  as  a  dream  of  anguish, 

Until  the  morn  I  woke 

To  feel  a  lifeless  baby  at  my  breast — 

Whose  eyes  had  never  looked  upon  the  light- 

YVhose  lips  had  never  drawn  a  mortal  breath- 

And  knew  my  prayer  was  answered  : 

Though  I  lived ; 

For  death  had  passed  me  by, 

And  left  me  to  my  punishment — 

To  live  .  .   . 

Knowing  myself  a  murderer  in  my  heart, 

Although  my  hands  were  clean. 

And,  since  that  hour, 

The  babe  has  haunted  me  ! 

And  I  have  never  dared 

To  be  alone  with  darkness, 

A  moment,  lest  those  eyes, 

Which  I  denied  the  light  of  heaven, 

Should  burn  out  from  the  dark  on  me. 

I  strove  to  keep  the  night  at  bay 

With  flickering  candles, 

But,  in  vain, 

Because  my  own  breast  still  was  dark. 

The  night  was  in  my  heart, 

25 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

My  stubborn  heart, 
That  could  not  yet  forgive. 
But,  when  I  came  from  work  to-day, 
I  was  so  spent, 
I  scarce  could  lift  the  latch, 
Or  cross  the  threshold-stone  ; 
And  could  not  eat  nor  sup ; 
Just  having  strength  to  light  my  candles, 
Before  I  fell  asleep, 
Beside  the  hearth. 
How  long  I  slept, 
I  cannot  tell. 
I  wakened,  with  a  start, 
To  find  the  room  in  darkness — 
The  candles  all  burnt  out. 
And  I  was  frightened; 
For  it  was  long  since  I  had  looked 
On  utter  night ; 
And  now, 

I  seemed  to  look  in  my  own  heart. 
I  feared  to  breathe  ; 
And  then  for  the  first  time 
Since  I  had  been  forsaken, 
The  thought  of  him  came  to  me, 
Without  a  breath  of  hate ; 
And  pity  stole  like  light  into  my  heart ; 
And,  in  a  flash, 

The  room  was  filled  with  light. 
And,  as  I  wondered  whence 

26 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

The  sudden  glory  sprang, 

My  little  babe 

Before  me,  laughing,  stood, 

With  arms  outstretched, 

And  happy,  kindling  eyes — 

His  little  body  filled  with  living  light. 

And,  as  I  stooped  .   .  . 

To  snatch  him  to  my  breast, 

I  fell  .  .   . 

And  knew  no  more  .  .  . 

Till,  in  the  night, 

I  saw  you,  standing  by  the  bed. 

But,  nay  ! 

There  is  no  night, 

Since  I  have  cast  out  fear ; 

And  I  shall  dread  the  darkness  nevermore. 

But  ...   I  am  weary  .  .  . 

And  would  sleep  .  .  . 

You  need  not  watch  with  me  ; 

For  I  fear  nothing  now  .   .  . 

I  who  have  come  through  midnight  .   .  . 

And  look  .   .  .  upon  ...  the  dawn. 

The  light  ...  the  light !   .   .  . 

My  babe  .   .  .  my  newborn  babe  ! 

[She  sinks  back  exhausted,  moaning.] 

Barbara  :  She  cannot  last  long  now  ; 
The  end  is  nigh. 
I  fear  he'll  be  too  late. 

27 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CANDLES 

Rebecca  :  Too  late  ? 
What  could  he  do  if  he  were  here  ? 
She's  far  beyond  the  need  of  doctors. 

[A  noise  of  wheels  is  heard  without  ;  the  door 
opens,  and  the  breath  of  morning  sweeps 
through  the  room.] 


28 


OX    THE    ROAD 

Persons :  Reuben  Appleby. 

Jessie  Appleby,  his  wife. 
Peter  Nixon,  a  stonebreaker. 

Reuben  Appleby  and  his  wife  sit  under  a  hedge  by  the 
highway.  Reuben  is  eating  bread  and  cheese,  while 
Jessie  is  feeding  her  baby  with  milk  out  of  a  bottle. 

Reuben.     "  Married  !  "  he  says, 
And  looks  at  me  quite  sharply— 
<:  A  boy  like  you  !  " 
And  civilly  I  answered  : 
"Not  such  a  boy,  sir; 
I  am  nineteen,  past." 
"  Nineteen  !"  says  he,  and  laughs ; 
"  And  you  a  husband,  with  a  wife  to  keep— 
A  wife  and  family,  I  suppose." 
"  We  have  a  baby,  sir." 
"  A  baby  !  and  you're  just  a  child  yourself ! 
What  right  have  you  to  marry, 
And  bring  into  the  world 
A  tribe  of  helpless  children 
To  starve,  and  beg,  and  steal  ?  " 
With  that  he  took  his  children  by  the  hand, 
And  walked  away. 

39 


ON    THE   ROAD 

I  could  have  flung  his  money  after  him ; 

But  I  had  laboured  for  it ; 

x\nd  was  hungry  ; 

And  knew  that  you  were  famished ; 

And  the  boy  must  have  his  milk. 

What  right  !— 

I  could  have  flung  .  .  . 

Jessie.     Then,  you  had  flung  away 
Your  baby's  life  ! 

Reuben.     Aye,  lass,  that  stopt  me, 
And  the  thought  of  you ; 
And  so,  I  took  the  sixpence , 
And  bought  the  bread  and  cheese  and  milk, 

Jessie.     You  brought  it  just  in  time. 
He'd  cried  himself  to  sleep ; 
But,  in  my  arms,  he  lay  so  still,  and  white, 
That  I  was  frightened. 

Reuben.     You  were  famished,  lass. 
Jessie.     Yes ;  I  was  done. 
I  scarce  could  hold  him, 
Though  he's  light- 
So  thin  and  light. 

But,  when  I  laid  him  down,  he  cried  so, 
I  could  not  bear  .  .   . 

Reuben.     Well,  he  looks  happy  now. 
He's  drinking  like  a  fish. 
The  milk  will  make  him  fat  again. 
But  you  eat  nothing,  Jessie.] 
Jessie.     I  cannot  eat.' 

3° 


ON   THE   ROAD 

Reuben.     You  cannot? 
Jessie.     Not  just  now. 
Reuben.     Jessie,  you  must ; 
You'll  die  of  hunger. 

Jessie.     I'm  not  hungry  now  ; 
But  only  weary. 
After,  perhaps  .  .  . 

Reuben.     What  right  had  I  to  marry  I 
What  right  had  he — 
He,  with  his  wife  and  children, 
To  speak  to  me  like  that  ? 
I  could  have  flung  .  .  . 

Jessie.     Nay,  lad  ;  don't  vex  yourself 
With  thought  of  such  as  he. 
How  can  it  matter  what  he  said  to  you, 
Now  that  it's  over, 
And  the  boy  is  fed  ? 

Reuben.     His  money  bought  the  milk- 
Aye,  and  the  bread  and  cheese. 

Jessie.     And  do  they  not  taste  sweet  ? 
You  seem  to  relish  them. 

Reuben.     They're  well  enough. 
But,  would  not  any  food  taste  sweet, 
After  starvation  ? 
And  I'd  worked  for  it. 

Jessie.     How  could  it  be  his  money, 
If  you'd  earned  it  ? 

Reuben.     True,  lass. 
Still,  you  eat  nothing. 

3T 


ON    THE    ROAD 

Jessie.     I  cannot  eat. 

Reuben.     It's  ill  work  tramping  all  the  livelong  day. 
With  naught  but  hunger  in  the  belly, 
As  we  did  yesterday ; 
And  then,  at  night, 
To  shelter  'neath  a  stack ; 
And  lie,  and  think — 
Too  cold  and  tired  to  sleep — 
To  lie,  and  think, 
And  wonder  if  to-morrow 
Would  bring  us  bite  and  sup ; 
Envying  the  very  beasts  that  they  could  feed 
Upon  the  hay  that  bedded  us. 
And  still,  'twas  good  to  rest 
From  tramping  the  hard  road. 
But,  you  were  plucky,  lass  ; 
And  trudged  so  bravely. 

Jessie.     Yet  I  could  have  dropped, 
Had  I  not  hoped  to  get  him  milk  ere  night. 

Reuben.     Poor  babe  ! 
He  cried  all  day. 
My  sleeve  was  wet  with  tears. 

Jessie.     'Twas  a  hard  road,  and  long. 

Reuben.     The  road  is  hard  and  long  the  poor  must 
travel. 

Jessie.     Aye ;  and  the  end  ? 

Reuben.     The  end  ? 
Where  the  end  lies,  who  knows  ? 

[A  pause.] 
32 


ON   THE    ROAD 

Wife,  he  spake  truly ; 

I'd  no  right  to  marry — 

No  right  to  wed,  and  bring  into  the  world  .   .  . 

Jessie.     What's  that  you  say  ? 
You're  wearied  of  me,  husband  ? 

Reuben.     Nay,  wife,  you  know  .  .  . 
Still,  he  spake  truly. 
I  never  thought  of  it  like  this  before ; 
I  never  should  have  thought  of  it  at  all, 
Had  he  not  spoken  ; 
I'd  not  wits  enough. 
But  now,  I  see  ; 
I  had  no  right  to  marry, 
And  bring  into  the  world 
A  baby  .  .  . 

Jessie.     Don't  you  love  your  son  ? 

Reuben.     Love  him  ! 
I  wouldn't  see  him  starve. 
I  had  no  right  .  .  . 
Yet,  when  we  married, 
Things  looked  so  different,  Jessie. 
I  earned  my  weekly  wage, 
Enough  to  live  on, 
And  to  keep  a  wife  on  ; 
And  we  were  happy  in  our  home, 
Together,  weren't  we,  wife  p 

Jessie.     Aye,  we  were  happy,  Reuben. 

Reuben.     And  then,  the  baby  came, 
And  we  were  happier  still ; 

-3?  D 


ON   THE   ROAD 

For,  how  could  we  foresee 

Bad  times  would  follow, 

And  work  be  slack  ; 

And  all  the  mills  be  stopt ; 

And  we  be  bundled  out  of  house  and  home  ; 

With  naught  to  do 

But  take  the  road, 

And  look  for  work  elsewhere  ? 

It's  a  long  looking  .  .  . 

Nay,  but  he  spake  truly  .  .  . 

I  had  no  right  .  .  . 

Jessie.     Nay,  Reuben,  you  talk  foolishness  ; 
Your  head  is  light  with  fasting. 
An  empty  belly  makes  an  empty  head. 
Leave  idle  talking  to  the  rich ; 
A  poor  man  can't  afford  it. 
And  I've  no  patience  with  such  folly. 
Reuben.     Nay,  it's  not  folly,  lass, 
But  truth,  the  bitter  truth. 
Is  it  not  true,  we're  on  the  road, 
I,  and  my  starving  wife  and  babe  ? 

Jessie.     Nay,  husband  ;  see  ! 
He's  drunk  the  milk  • 
And  sleeps  so  sweetly. 
Reuben.     But  you're  ill. 
Jessie.     111? 
Nay,  I'm  well  enough. 

Reuben.     Yet  you're  too  ill  to  eat. 
Jessie.     Nay,  I  was  only  tired. 

34 


ON   THE   ROAD 

But  I'll  eat  now,  lad, 
If  you've  left  me  aught ! 
See  how  it  goes  ! 

Reuben.     I  had  no  right  .  .  . 

Jessie.     Not  if  you  did  not  love  me  ! 

Reuben.     You  know  .  .  . 

Jessie.     How  can  I  tell  ? 
You  talk  so  strangely  ; 

And  say  that  you'd  no  right  to  wed  me  .  .   . 
Why  did  you  wed  me,  then  ? 

Reuben.     Because  I  couldn't  help  .  .  . 
I  could  not  do  without  you. 
I  did  not  think  .   .  . 
How  could  I  think,  when  I  was  mad  for  you  ? 

Jessie.     And  yet  you  had  no  right  ? 

Reuben.     Right !     What  thought  I  of  right  ? 
I  only  thought  of  you,  lass. 
Nay,  but  I  did  not  think  .  .  . 
I  only  felt, 
And  knew  I  needs  must  have  you. 

Jessie.     You  loved  me  .  .  . 
Then,  was  love  not  right  enough  ? 
Why  talk  of  right  ? 
Or,  have  you  wearied  of  us — 
Your  wife  and  son  ? 
Poor  babe  ! 
He  doesn't  love  us  any  longer. 

Reuben.     Nay,  wife,  you  know  .  .  . 

35  *>  * 


ON    THE   ROAD 

[Peter  Nixon,  an  elderly  man,  gaunt  and  bent  with  labour, 
comes  slowly  down  the  road,  with  his  stonebreaker 's 
hammer  on  his  shoulder.     He  glances  at  Reuben  and 
Jessie,  in  passing ;  hesitates,  then  turns,  and  comes 
towards  them.] 
Peter.     Fine  morning,  mate  and  mistress  ! 
Might  you  be  looking  for  a  job,  my  lad  ? 
Well  .  .  .  there's  a  heap  of  stones  to  break,  down  yonder. 
I  was  just  on  my  way  .  .  . 
But  I  am  old  : 
And,  maybe,  a  bit  idle  ; 
And  you  look  young, 
And  not  afraid  of  work, 
Or  I'm  an  ill  judge  of  a  workman's  hands. 
And  when  the  job's  done,  lad, 
There'll  be  a  shilling. 
And  there's  worse  work  than  breaking  stones  for  bread. 

And  I'll  just  have  a  nap, 

While  you  are  busy  ; 

And,  maybe,  sleep  away  the  afternoon, 

Like  the  old,  idle  rascal  that  I  am. 

Nay,  but  there's  naught  to  thank  me  for. 

I'm  old  ; 

And  I've  no  wife  and  children, 

And  so,  don't  need  the  shilling. 

But  you  are  young  \ 

And  you  must  work  for  it, 

While  I  sit  by  and  watch  you 

And  keep  you  at  it. 

36 


ON    THE   ROAD 

I  like  to  watch  folk  working, 

For  I  am  old  and  idle. 

Perhaps  I'll  sleep  a  bit,  with  one  eye  open ; 

And  when  you  think  I'm  nodding, 

I'll  come  down  on  you  like  a  load  of  metal. 

Don't  fear  ! 

Ill  make  you  earn  it ; 

You'll  have  to  sweat, 

Before  that  shilling's  yours ; 

Unless  you're  proud — 

Too  proud  to  work  .  .  . 

Nay? 

Well,  the  heap's  down  yonder — 

There,  at  the  turning. 

Ah,  the  bonnie  babe  ! 

We  had  no  children,  mistress. 

And  what  can  any  old  man  do  with  shillings, 

With  no  one  but  himself  to  spend  them  on — 

An  idle,  good-for-nothing,  lone  old  man  ? 

[He  leads  them  to  the  turning  of  the  road.\ 


57 


THE    BETROTHED 

Persons :  Deborah  Grey,  Edward  Grey's  mother. 

Frances  Hall,  betrothed  to  Edward  Grey. 

Scene  :  A  fishing  village,  on  the  return  of  the  Boats  from 
the  season's  fishing  in  foreign  waters.  Deborah 
Grey's  cottage.  Deborah  Grey,  an  infirm,  middle- 
aged  woman,  sits  by  the  hearth.  Frances  Hall 
enters,  and  sits  down  7vith  her  knitting. 

Deborah.     Why,  Frances,  you're  not  gone 
To  watch  the  Boats  come  in  ? 
When  I  was  but  a  wench, 
With  lad  aboard  a  homing  boat, 
I  could  not  rest,  nor  work, 
For  days  and  days  before ; 
But  spent  my  whole  time  on  the  quay, 
To  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  his  sail ; 
And  little  recked,  although  my  mother  chided. 
But  you  .  .  . 

Frances.     The  Boats  are  not  in  sight  yet. 

Deborah.     They're  due  to-day,  lass,  surely  ? 
And,  if  you  tarry  here, 

38 


THE    BETROTHED 

You'll  miss  the  first  sight  of  the  sails, 
That  brings  such  sweet  relief 
Unto  the  anxious  heart. 
How  often  have  I  stared 
Upon  the  far  horizon, 
Until  it  seemed  his  sail 
Would  never  sweep  in  sight ; 
And,  in  the  end, 
I  looked  in  vain. 

Frances.     In  vain  ! 
I,  too,  shall  look  in  vain. 

Deeorah.     Why,  Frances,  lass, 
What  ails  you  ? 

Is  this  a  brave  girl's  heart  ? 

Though,  in  the  end, 

I  looked  in  vain, 

Good  hope  was  ever  in  my  breast, 

Until  I  knew. 

A  woman  who  gives  way  to  foolish  fears 

May  bring  about  the  thing  she  dreads. 

O  lass,  cast  out  that  thought, 

Lest  it  should  bring  his  boat  in  peril  ! 

He  will  return. 

Tell  that  unto  your  heart, 

Till  it  believes. 

Your  doubt  may  breed  disaster. 

But,  away  ! 

You  should  be  with  the  other  women-folk, 

As  I  would  be, 

39 


THE    BETROTHED 

If  I  could  crawl  as  far. 

Your  eager  eyes 

Should  welcome  the  first  speck  that  swims  in  sight, 

And  know  it  for  his  sail. 

Frances.     Nay,  I  would  stay  with  you. 
We  soon  shall  hear 
When  any  boat's  in  sight. 

Deborah.     One  scarce  would  think  you  had  a  lover, 
Frances. 
In  my  young  days, 
No  girl  could  keep  indoors, 
Knowing  the  Boats  were  due. 
Yet,  here  you  sit 
So  calmly,  knitting. 

Frances.     If  I  don't  knit, 
What  can  I  do  ? 

Deborah.     What  can  .  .  . 

Frances.     I  only  knit, 
Because  I  dare  not  think. 

Deborah.     You  dare  not  think  ? 

Frances.     But  you  .  .  . 
You  have  no  mercy  .  .  . 
Nay,  forgive  me  ! 
I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  .  .  . 
And  yet, 
If  you  had  only  let  me  knit  in  peact 

Deborah.     In  peace  ? 

Frances.     And  now, 
I  cannot  even  knit. 

40 


THE    BETROTHED 

Why  should  I  knit  for  him  ? 

Deborah.     For  Edward  ? 

Frances.     Yes,  for  him. 
Why  should  I, 
Knowing  that  I  knit  in  vain  ? 

Deborah.     WThat  ails  you,  lass  ? 
Do  you  not  love  my  son  ? 

Frances.     Do  I  not  love  him  ? 
Love  him  .  .  .  woman  .  .  .  love  ! 
Why,  you  know  naught  of  love 
To  question  this  ! 
Have  you  no  eyes,  no  heart  ? 
Ah,  God  ! 

I  thought  the  dullest  would  have  seen  .  .  . 
And  you,  his  mother  .  .  . 
And  you  once  were  young  ! 
But  you  are  young  no  longer. 
You  look  on  Edward  as  a  child. 
Still,  you  were  young  once, 
And  have  loved,  you  say  .  .  . 

Deborah.     Yes,  lass,  I  loved. 
God  knows,  none  ever  was  more  true  to  love  .  .  . 

Frances.      Then  you   should    know  the   terror   and 
despair. 

Deborah.     At  your  age,  Frances,  love,  to  me, 
Was  naught  but  happiness  and  hope. 

Frances.     You  have  not  loved  ! 

Deborah.     Yes,  I  have  loved  ! 
I,  too,  have  known  the  terror  and  despair ; 

4i 


THE   BETROTHED 

But  never  looked  to  meet  it  ere  its  time. 
I  doubted  naught, 
Until  disaster  fell. 

I  did  not  go  half-way  to  meet  disaster. 
Frances.     And  yet,  disaster  came  ? 
Deborah.     Disaster  came  .  .  . 
But  I  had  known  some  happiness. 
My  maiden  days  of  love 
Were  one  long,  happy  dream. 
Your  heart  should  know  no  care  now. 
What  can  it  dread  ? 

Frances.     If  I  but  knew  ! 
Deborah.     You  foolish  girl ! 
When  you  know  more  of  life, 
You  will  not  spend  your  heart  so  easily 
On  idle  fancies. 
'Twill  be  time  enough 
To  meet  your  trouble,  when  it  comes. 
I  know,  and  none  knows  better, 
The  bitterness  life  brings. 
And  still,  we  better  naught  by  dark  foreboding, 
And  brooding  on  unknown  .  .  . 

Frances.     It's  the  unknown  I  dread. 
Deborah.     Nay,  lass, 
Enough  of  this  ! 
There's  naught  to  fear. 
Your  lover,  even  now,  is  on  his  way, 
And  strains  his  eyes  to  catch  the  earliest  glimpse  .  .  . 
[A  noise  of  voices  and  running  footsteps  without^ 

4.2 


THE   BETROTHED 

Hark,  lass  ! 

They  cry  : 

The  Boats  ! 

The  Boats  in  sight ! 

Why  do  you  tarry,  lass  ? 

Away  with  you  ! 

Oh,  would  that  I  could  go 

To  meet  my  son  ! 

Frances.    The  Boats  are  still  far  off. 
I  cannot  go  yet. 

Deborah.     You  must !    Away  ! 
Why,  what  would  Edward  think, 
Were  you  not  there, 
The  first  to  greet  him 
As  he  steps  ashore  ? 

Frances.     I  nevermore  shall  greet  him  .  .  . 
Deeorah.     Woman,  peace  ! 
I  am  his  mother. 
Could  I  fail  to  know, 
If  death  had  taken  him  ? 
The  sea  could  not  withhold 
Such  knowledge  from  me  for  a  single  hour. 
He  is  not  drowned  .  .  . 
May  he  forgive  my  lips  that  slipt  the  word  ! 
Your  folly  goaded  me. 
And,  surely,  never  word  of  mine 
Can  bring  my  son  in  peril  ! 


[Frances  goes  cut.'] 


And  yet,  I  too,  have  feared  .  . 

43 


THE   BETROTHED 

Nay,  surely,  I  have  come 

Unto  the  end  of  all  my  misery  ! 

Life  cannot  hold  fresh  woe  in  store. 

My  days  began  in  happiness  ; 

And  now,  it  seems, 

Though  I  have  passed  through  terrors  and  despairs, 

That  I  shall  come  again  to  happiness, 

Before  the  end. 

Nay,  there  is  naught  to  dread. 

My  son  is  hale  and  hearty, 

And  comes  to  wed  a  lass  who  loves  him  \ 

And  she,  I  know,  is  true  to  him  ; 

And  such  a  handy  girl 

Will  make  the  best  of  wives. 

And  I,  one  day, 

Shall  nurse  his  child  upon  my  knee. 

[Shouting  without. .] 
The  Boats  are  in  ! 
I  know  that  cry  ! 

How  oft  my  heart  has  leapt  with  hope  to  hear  it ; 
Then  fallen  dead, 
When  no  one  came  to  answer  my  heart's  cry. 

[A  long  pause,  during  which  Deborah  sits  gazing 
at  the  Jire.] 

But  I'll  not  think  of  that  now. 

Edward  comes — 

My  son  comes  home — 

And  with  him  comes  the  hope 

44 


THE   BETROTHED 

Of  all  my  happiness. 

For,  surely,  life  .  .  . 

How  long  it  takes  to  get  the  nets  ashore  .  .  . 

But  I  hear  footsteps  coming  .  .  . 

They  stop  short. 

Some  one  has  crossed  his  threshold,  and  won  home. 

Joy  has  come  home  to  someone's  heart. 

Again,  a  rush  of  feet  .  .  . 

But  they  have  passed  the  door. 

I  might  have  known  'twas  not  his  foot. 

And  still,  I  thought 

That  no  one  could  have  beaten  my  boy  home. 

Surely,  by  now,  the  nets  are  out, 

And  all  made  trim  and  ship-shape. 

And  yet, 

He  does  not  come. 

Someone  must  keep  him  .  .  . 

Someone  ...  I  forget ! 

Nay,  I'm  no  longer  all-in-all  to  him. 

Why  should  he  haste, 

With  Frances  by  his  side  ? 

Two  never  trod  a  road  as  quick  as  one. 

I  must  be  patient  still  .  .  . 

But,  hark  ! 

A  woman's  step  .  .  . 

A  woman's  .  .  . 

And  .  .  .  alone  ! 

She  stops,  thank  God  ! 

Nay  .  .  .  she  comes  slowly  on. 

45 


THE   BETROTHED 

0  God,  that  she  may  pass  ! 
She  stops  .  .  . 

She  only  stops  for  breath. 

She  will  go  by. 

Perhaps,  poor  soul,  her  lover  has  been  drowned — 

Her  lover, 

Or  her  husband  .  .   . 

Or  her  son. 

1  wonder  who  .  .  . 
And  still, 

She  lingers  .  .   . 

I  hear  no  sound. 

Could  I  but  rise  ! 

She  stirs  at  last. 

Ah,  God  !  she's  drawing  nearer  ; 

Her  foot  is  on  the  threshold  .  .   . 

[Frances  enters,  slowly,  and  sinks  wearily 
into  a  chair,  'without  speaking.] 

Deborah.     You  come,  alone  ? 

Frances.     I  come,  alone. 

Deborah.     The  Boats  are  in  ? 

Frances.     The  Boats  are  in. 

Deborah.     All  in  ? 
Say,  lass,  that  one  has  not  yet  reached  the  harbour. 
Have  pity  ! 

Frances.     All  are  in. 

Deborah.     No  boat  is  missing  ? 

Frances.     "  The  Family's  Pride  "  has  foundered. 

46 


THE   BETROTHED 

Deborah.     But  that  was  not  his  boat. 
He  was  not  on  her,  lass,  when  she  went  down  ? 
Speak,  lass  ! 

Frances.     He  was  not  on  her. 
Her  crew  went  down  with  her  .  .  . 
But  he  .  .  . 

Deborah.     He  is  not  drowned  ? 

Frances.     He  is  not  drowned. 

Deborah.     Thank  God  ! 
And  yet,  he  stays  .  .  . 
What  keeps  him,  Frances  ? 
Will  he  soon  be  home  ? 
Are  all  the  nets  not  out  yet  ? 
And  you  .  .  . 

Do  you  but  come  before  him  ? 
You  frightened  me  • 
You  walked  so  slowly ; 
And  you  looked  .  .   .  you  look  .   .  . 
O  woman,  tell  me  that  he  follows  you  ! 

Frances.     He  does  not  follow. 

Deborah.     Oh,  you'll  drive  me  crazed  ! 
Have  you  no  heart ! 
Speak  out. 
And  tell  me  quickly 
What  keeps  my  son  from  me. 

Frances.     How  should  I  know  what  keeps  your  son 
from  you  ? 

Deborah.     He  is  not  dead  ? 

Frances.     He  is  not  dead. 

47 


THE   BETROTHED 

Deborah.     And  yet  he  bides  from  home. 
O  woman,  speak  ! 
For  pity's  sake, 
Tell  all  you  know— 
For  you  know  something  ; 
And  I'm  strong ; 
I've  gone  through  much. 
Speak  out  the  truth. 

Frances.     There  is  not  much  to  tell. 
He  left  the  Boats, 
Ere  they  put  out  for  home. 
He  gave  no  reason. 
He  only  asked  his  mates 
To  let  you  have  his  share, 
When  they  should  make  the  season's  reckoning. 
He  said  he  needed  naught ; 
As  he  had  done  with  fishing, 
And  never  would  return. 

Deborah.     My  son ! 
And  they  knew  nothing  of  the  way  he  went  ? 

Frances.     Nothing ! 
They  tried  to  turn  him  : 
But  in  vain. 
Woman  .  .   .  your  son  .  .  . 

Deborah.     He  left  no  word  for  you  ? 

Frances.  Nay,  not  a  word. 
He  had  no  thought  for  me  .  .  . 
Nor  for  his  child. 

Deborah.     His  child  ? 

48 


THE   BETROTHED 

Frances.     His  child,  that,  even  now, 
Within  my  womb  .   .  . 

Deborah.     Ah,  God,  had  I  but  known  ! 
Had  I  but  known  ! 
He  is  his  father's  son. 

Frances.     Woman,  what's  that  you  mutter  ? 
Were  you  not  married  .  .  .  you  ? 

Deborah.     Yes,  I  was  wedded, 
Ere  my  boy  was  born. 
But  that  meant  little  : 
For  his  father  left  me, 
Ere  Edward  saw  the  light. 
He  went  away, 
Without  a  word ; 

And  I  have  not  set  eyes  on  him  again. 
He  may  be  living  still, 
For  all  I  know. 

Frances.     And  you  .  .  . 
You  let  me  love  his  son. 

Deborah.     His  son  ? 
But  Edward  was  my  son  as  well. 
He  never  knew  his  father ; 
And  could  I  dream 
He'd  follow  in  his  steps  ? 
Believe  me,  or  believe  not, 
As  you  will, 

This  thing  my  heart  could  never  have  foreseen. 
I  have  been  blind  and  foolish,  maybe,  lass, 
Because  I  loved  my  son  ; 

49 


THE   BETROTHED 

Yes,  I  was  blind, 

And  you  must  curse  me  for  that  blindness, 

And  not  for  any  evil  purpose. 

If  I  had  seen, 

I  should  have  told  you  all ; 

Aye,  even  though  my  words  estranged 

My  only  son  from  me. 

Ah,  God,  that  he  had  died, 

Ere  this  could  happen  ! 

But  time  re-tells  the  old  and  bitter  tale 

I  know  too  well  already. 

That  he  .  .  . 

You  say 

"  The  Family's  Pride  "  went  down  with  all  her  men  ; 

And  Martha  Irwin  is  left  desolate 

Of  all  her  sons  ; 

And  still  I  envy  her. 

Her  sons  have  gallantly  gone  down  to  death , 

But  mine  .  .  . 

I  would  that  he,  too  .  .  . 

I  would  that  he  .  .  . 

Frances.     Nay,  woman,  hush  ! 
For  he  may  still  return. 
And  yet  you  say 
His  father  came  no  more. 

Deborah.     He  came  no  more. 

Frances.     Then  there  is  nothing  left  for  me, 
But  death  .  .  . 
And  I  ...  I  loved  him  .  .  . 


THE   BETROTHED 

Deborah.     No  love  is  spent  in  vain. 
Don't  talk  of  death. 

Frances.     What  else  is  left  me,  woman  ? 

Deborah.     Life ! 

Frances.     Life  .  .  .  without  him  ! 
Ah,  God,  I  love  him  still ! 
And  life  without  him  were  a  living  death. 
And  I  would  rather  lie 
Cold  in  my  grave, 
If  I  must  die. 

Deborah.     You  must  not  die. 

Frances.     Who  bids  me  live  ? 

Deborah.     The  child. 

Frances.     His  child! 
Far  better  I  should  die 
Than  it  be  born  to  misery. 

Deborah.     'Twas  even  so  I  talked, 
Before  my  boy  was  born ; 
And  yet,  I  lived. 

Frances.     And  what  has  life  been  worth  to  you  ? 

Deborah.     I  have  not  found  much  happiness  in  life ; 
And  now  all  that  I've  toiled  for, 
The  happiness  I  thought  within  my  reach, 
That  I  have  laboured  after  all  these  years, 
Is  snatched  from  me  ; 
And,  in  the  end, 
I  find  no  peace. 
And  still,  have  I  not  toiled  ? 
And  toil  is  something  more  than  happiness ; 

;i  e  2 


THE   BETROTHED 

It's  life  itself. 

I  have  not  flinched  from  life. 
But  looked  it  in  the  face. 
My  son  was  born  to  me  in  bitterness, 
And  he  has  passed  from  me  again 
In  bitterness. 
And  yet,  meanwhile, 
I've  found  my  life  worth  living. 
I  have  toiled ; 
And  I  am  old, 
And  broken  ere  my  time — 
The  woman's  life 
Is  not  an  easy  one,  at  best. 
But  you  are  strong  ; 
And  unto  her  who  labours  for  a  child 
Life  cannot  be  all  barrenness. 
Aye,  you  must  live  life  out. 
You  cannot  see  the  end ; 
And  happiness,  that  slips  me,  at  the  last, 
May  still  be  yours. 

The  child  may  be  your  child  and  mine- 
Not  Edward's  and  his  father's. 
We  two  have  loved, 

And  we  will  both  be  faithful  to  the  end. 
I  have  not  many  years  to  live  out, 
But  I  would  not  die  now ; 
For  I  yet  hope  to  nurse 
My  grandchild  on  my  knee, 
life  has  denied  me  much ; 

52 


THE   BETROTHED 

But  you  will  not  deny  me  this  ? 
Have  pity  on  me, 
Old  and  desolate. 
Would  you  forsake  me,  lass  ? 
Franxes.     I  will  not  leave  you. 


THE    FIRSTBORN 

Persons  :  David  Elliot. 

Miriam  Elliot,  his  wife. 

Scene:  David  Elliot's  cottage.  Miriam  Elliot  stands 
by  the  open  door^  looking  out. 

Miriam.     The  Boats  are  in ; 
And  I  .  .  . 

I  dare  not  go  to  meet  him. 
I  wouldn't  have  him  hear  the  tidings 
From  other  lips  than  mine — 
His  wife's  .  .  . 
And  yet, 

How  shall  I  tell  him — 
I,  his  wife ! 
How  shall  I  say  : 
1  Husband,  you  have  no  son  ; 
For  I,  his  mother — 
I  have  let  him  die 

While  you  were  toiling  for  him  on  the  deep  ?  " 
Perhaps  they'll  break  the  news  to  him, 
Before  he  .  .  . 

Nay,  but  he  must  learn  it  here — 
Here,  in  his  home, 

54 


THE   FIRSTBORN 

And  only  from  my  lips, 

Lest  he  should  blench,  and  tremble,  in  the  street, 

Or  turn  upon  the  speaker  in  blind  fury. 

I  think  he'll  not  be  fierce  with  me  ; 

Though  he's  so  passionate, 

And  loves  the  child 

Beyond  all  else. 

He  knows  I,  too, 

Love  .  .  . 

And  yet, 

When  all  is  told, 

I  nevermore  shall  dare 

To  look  into  his  eyes. 

His  step  .  .  . 

He  comes. 

David  {entering).     Well,  wife,  I'm  home. 
Have  you  no  word  of  welcome  ? 
Come,  kiss  me,  wife. 

Miriam.     Nay,  not  till  you  know  all. 

David.     Know  all  .  .  . 
Then  it  is  true  .  .  . 
Wife,  I  know  all. 

[Kisses  >icr?\ 

Miriam.     Some  one  has  told  you  ? 

David.     Nay ; 
I  did  not  learn  it,  Miriam, 
From  mortal  lips. 
Before  we  reached  the  quay, 
My  heart  already  feared  ; 

55 


THE   FIRSTBORN 

And  when  I  saw  no  face  among  the  throng 
To  welcome  me, 
I  knew  the  boy  was  dead — 
That  he  had  died 

The  night  I  saw  him,  cradled  in  the  foam 
Miriam.     You  saw  him,  David  ! 
David.     Yes,  I  saw  him,  wife, 
Aslumber  in  the  hollow  of  a  wave. 
Twas  on  a  Friday  night, 
A  fortnight  since  .  .  . 

Miriam.     The  night  he  died  ! 
David.     Yes,  wife  ;  I  saw  him  die. 
Miriam.     You  saw  him  die  ? 
David.     'Twas  on  the  Friday  night, 
When  we  sailed  out, 
Beneath  a  cloudy  moon, 
To  shoot  the  nets, 
As,  standing  in  the  bow, 
I  watched  the  heaving  waters, 
My  glance  lit  on  a  patch  of  foam 
That  held  my  gaze 
Until  it  took  a  baby's  form. 
And  all  at  once 
I  knew  that  it  was  he, 
Our  little  David, 
Who  lay  sleeping  there. 
And  as  the  moon  flashed  out 
I  saw,  more  clearly, 
His  dear,  white  dimpling  body— 

5* 


THE   FIRSTBORN 

One  wee  arm, 

Curled  on  his  breast, 

The  other,  stretched  towards  me, 

Although  he  seemed  to  sleep ; 

And,  on  his  brow,  his  hair, 

As  ruddy  as  the  new-dipt  sails — 

Your  hair  he  had,  wife, 

Though  his  eyes  were  mine — 

His  ruddy  hair  gleamed  brightly, 

Unwetted  by  the  waves. 

And  as  I  looked  on  him, 

My  heart  went  cold. 

And  still  I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  away, 

Until  the  moon  went  in, 

And  he  had  slipt  from  sight, 

Although  I  strained  across  the  glooming  waters 

For  one  more  glimpse  of  that  foam-cradled  form. 

And  then  we  reached  the  fishing  ground  ; 

And  I — I  turned  to  work, 

Although  my  heart  was  sore  — 

My  heart,  that  knew  too  surely 

All  was  not  well  with  them  I  loved. 
Miriam.     That  night, 

I  watched  beside  him  as  he  slept ; 

One  little  arm  was  curled  upon  his  breast, 

The  other  stretched  towards  me ; 

His  ruddy  hair  drooped  o'er  his  brow. 

He  slept. 

But  in  the  end  .  .  . 

57 


THE   FIRSTBORN 

David.     Ah,  God,  I  know  ! 
For,  as  we  hauled  the  nets, 
I  saw  his  body,  tangled  in  the  mesh  — 
His  little  body,  struggling, 
Frail  and  white, 
Among  the  silver  herring. 
My  heart  stood  still. 
I  could  not  stir, 
Nor  utter  cry. 
But,  as  the  nets  came  in, 
I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  mesh 
Save  lashing  fish ; 
And,  as  we  shook  it  out, 
Naught  flashed  beneath  the  moon, 
Or  tumbled  in  the  hold. 
Save  the  live  quivering  heap  of  silver  herring. 
A  heavy  catch  they  said. 
But  I — how  should  I  know  ? 

Miriam.     Ah,  husband,  how  he  struggled 
Ere  he  died  ! 
He  fought  so  hard — 
So  hard  for  life.  .  .  . 
And  I.   .  .  . 

I  could  do  nothing  for  him — 
I,  his  mother. 

David,  you  know  my  love  for  him. 
My  heart  has  well-nigh  died  with  him. 
You  do  not  blame  .  .  . 

David.     Nay,  wile ; 


THE   FIRSTBORN 

For  he  was  taken  in  the  nets ; 

And  I,  his  father, 

Could  not  set  him  free. 

We  could  do  nothing,  Miriam. 

Once  again, 

I  saw  him,  ere  the  dawning, 

And  once  more, 

He  nestled  in  the  hollow  of  a  wave, 

Foam-white  amid  the  foam. 

His  little  hands  were  clasped  upon  his  breast , 

And  then  I  knew  he  slumbered  peacefully, 

And  would  not  wake  again. 

The  day  broke, 

And  I  never  saw  him  more. 

Miriam.     He  slumbered  peacefully  ; 
His  little  hands  were  clasped  upon  his  breast, 
I  watched  with  him  till  dawn. 

David.     And  my  heart  watched  with  you. 
Miriam.     And  we  are  left  without  him. 
David.     But  we  are  left  together,  wife — 
We  two  .  .  . 

Miriam.     We  two  .  .  . 
And  we  three  were  so  happy, 
Together,  husband  ! 
Oh,  why  should  he  leave  us  ? 
For  he  was  always  happy, 
Till  the  end  .  .   . 

David.     Yes,  he  was  always  happy ; 
His  little  life  was  full  of  happiness. 

59 


THE   FIRSTBORN 

Perhaps  it's  for  the  best 

That  he's  not  lived  to  look, 

As  all  must  look, 

Some  day  or  other,  on  unhappiness. 

He  brought  so  much  j 

And,  though  he's  gone  so  suddenly, 

He  has  not  taken  all  away  with  him. 

We  still  have  memories. 

Miriam.     But  memory  is  bitter. 
David.     Can  thought  of  him  be  anything  but  sweet  ? 
Do  you  remember,  wife,  when  he  was  born, 
Two  years  ago, 
How  I  was  out  at  sea  ? 
My  heart  was  filled  with  fear  for  you, 
And  hankered  to  be  home. 
The  wind  and  tide 
Were  dead  against  us  : 
But  my  will  was  strong, 
And  when  I  saw  our  chosen  signal— 
A  snow-white  kerchief  by  the  chimney-stack- 
Waving  me  welcome,  with  the  welcome  word, 
That  you  were  safely  through, 
And  unto  me  a  son  was  born — 
Wife,  I  was  mad  for  home, 
And  crazed  to  run  the  boat 
Against  the  odds  of  wind  and  water, 
Though  other  signals  warned  us  from  the  shore. 
What  did  I  care  ! 
My  mates  were  daft  with  fear, 

60 


THE    FIRSTBORN 

And  cried  out,  we'd  be  dashed  to  death 

Upon  the  Devil's  Tooth, 

But  more  they  feared  my  eyes — 

My  eyes  that  saw  your  signal, 

Aflutter  with  fair  welcome  ; 

And  we  rode  in, 

Against  the  odds  of  wind  and  wave ; 

And  folk  ran  down  to  greet  us, 

As  if  we  had  been  snatched  from  death ; 

Though  I — 

I  did  not  heed  them, 

But  leapt  ashore, 

And  ran  to  you — 

To  you,  who'd  come  through  peril,  too, 

And  won  safe  into  harbour. 

And  then  I  saw  the  babe, 

Our  little  son, 

That  snuggled  to  your  breast, 

And  nestled  in  my  heart. 

Miriam.     My  bosom  yearns  for  him 
Your  heart  will  evermore  be  empty, 

David.     Nay,  wife,  nay  ! 
Shall  not  your  breast  and  mine 
Be  ever  full  of  love  of  him  ? 
Sweet  memories  of  him 
Shall  nestle  in  our  hearts, 
For  evermore, 
And  we  have  still  each  other, 

Miriam.     And  our  son  ! 

61 


-THE    FAMILY'S    PRIDE" 

Persons  :  Martha  Irwin,  a  widow. 

Katherine  Irwin,  her  daughter. 
Agnes  Irwin,  her  daughter-in-law. 
Emma  Pruddah,  a  neighbour. 

Scene:  Martha  Irwin's  cottage  at  dawn. 

Katherine.     She  has  not  stirred, 
Nor  spoken  all  the  night, 
Though  I  have  never  left  her. 

Emma.     I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  her  face. 
My  man  still  slumbers  soundly ; 
And,  it's  so  many  nights 
Since  he  has  stretched  his  body  on  a  bed, 
I  would  not  waken  him. 
There's  little  rest  for  men  at  sea, 
Cramped  in  a  narrow  bunk, 
Betwixt  the  watches, 
For  an  hour  or  so. 
And  he  has  slept  beside  me, 
All  night  long, 

As  soundly  as  a  boat  becalmed. 

62 


"THE   FAMILY'S    PRIDE" 

And  it  was  good  to  see  him 

Sleeping  there. 

As  I  recalled  the  wakeful  nights 

I'd  lain  alone. 

It's  weary  waiting  for  your  man's  return  ; 

But,  when  he  comes  again  .  .  . 

Katkerine.     She  has  not  stirred, 
Nor  spoken  once, 
Nor  lifted  up  her  eyes 
The  livelong  night ; 
Nor  can  I  rouse  her  now. 
And  she  has  taken  neither  bite  nor  sup. 
Agnes,  John's  wife, 
And  Michael's  lass  have  been, 
Though  they,  poor  wenches, 
Were  distraught  themselves. 
But  nothing  rouses  her  ; 
And  she  has  scarcely  breathed, 
Since  first  I  broke  the  news  to  her, 
And  told  her  that  her  sons  were  drowned. 
She  stayed  at  home, 
While  I  went  down 
To  meet  the  Boats, 
Saying,  that  wives  and  maids 
Should  be  the  first  to  welcome 
The  men  on  their  return. 

Emma.     'Twas  well  she  did  not  go. 

Katherine.     When  first  I  heard  the  tidings, 
I  was  stunned, 

6.> 


"  THE   FAMILY'S    TRIDK  " 

And  stood  awhile,  dumfounded. 
Then  I  remembered  .  .  . 
And  I  shook  myself, 
And  ran  straight  home  to  her, 
Lest  she  should  hear  of  her  sons'  death 
From  any  stranger's  lips. 
She  stood  upon  the  threshold, 
'Waiting  them, 

A  smile  of  welcome  on  her  face. 
But  when  she  saw  me  come,  alone, 
She  caught  her  breath, 
And  looked  into  my  eyes, 
And  spake  to  me, 
Ere  I  could  utter  aught : 
"  And  has  the  sea  kept  all  ?  " 
And  I  .  .  . 

I  could  but  answer,  "  All  ! " 
She  asked  no  more, 
But  turned  upon  her  heel, 
And  went  indoors, 
And  sat  down  by  the  hearth. 
She  has  not  stirred, 
Nor  spoken  since  to  me  ; 
Though  once  I  heard  her 
Murmur  to  herself 
Her  dead  sons'  names, 
Slowly,  as  though  she  feared 
Lest  they  should  slip  her  memory. 
"  John,  William,  Michael,  Mark,  and  little  Pete," 

64 


"THE   FAMILY'S    PRIDE" 

She  murmured  to  herself; 

And  neither  stirred  nor  spake  again. 

Emma.     It's  well  that  you  are  left  her. 

Katherine.     My  name  she  did  not  breathe. 
I'm  naught  to  her ; 
She  never  cared  for  me. 
Her  sons  were  all-in-all  to  her. 
I  grudged  them  not  her  whole  heart's  love  .  .  . 
My  brothers  !  .   .  . 
Now  I've  none  but  her, 
And  she  has  no  one  left 
To  keep  life  in  her  heart. 

Emma.     Nay,  do  not  say  so ; 
You're  her  daughter,  lass. 

Katherine.     Her  sons  were  all-in-all, 
And  they  are  dead. 

'Twas  strange  she  never  asked  me  how  they  died  ; 
She  must  have  seen  them  drowning 
In  my  eyes. 

And  I  have  told  her  nothing  more, 
For  she  has  asked  me  nothing. 
And  yet,  what  should  she  ask  ? 
What  was  there  left  to  tell  her  heart  ? 
Her  mother's  heart  knew  all, 
Ere  aught  was  told. 

Emma.     Lass,  'twas  a  cruel  storm. 
My  husband  scarce  escaped. 
"The  Family's  Pride "  .  .  . 

Katherine.     Nay,  spare  me,  neighbour,  now. 

65  V 


"THE   FAMILY'S   PRIDE" 

I  cannot  listen  to  that  tale  again — 

I,  who  have  looked  upon  that  face  all  night, 

And  harkened  for  a  word  from  those  dumb  lips. 

Had  she  but  wept, 

Or  spoken  once  to  me, 

I  might  have  helped  her  somewhat, 

Even  I. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  lay  that  aching  brow 

In  slumber  on  my  breast. 

And  yet, 

I  dare  not  lay  my  hand  on  her, 

Lest  she  turn  round  on  me, 

And  realise 

That  only  I  am  left  her. 

Emma  {going  to  the  door).     Agnes  comes, 
And  brings  her  babe  with  her. 
Perhaps  the  boy  will  rouse  your  mother. 

[To  Agnes,  as  she  enters.] 
Lass,  lay  him  in  her  lap. 
He'll  rouse  the  spark  of  life  in  her, 
And  wake  her  from  her  brooding  on  the  dead. 

[Agnes  goes  forward  without  speaking,  and  lays  the 
child  in  its  grandmother  s  lap.  Martha  Irwin 
gazes  at  it,  then  takes  it  to  her  breast,  looking  np 
at  Agnes.] 

Martha.     Yes,  I  will  tend  the  boy, 
While  you  go  down  .  .   . 

66 


"THE   FAMILY'S   PRIDE" 

To  meet  your  husband,  Agnes. 

Lass,  away  ! 

The  Boats  will  soon  be  in, 

And  you  will  be  the  first  to  greet  .  . 

My  son  .  .  .  your  husband  .  .  . 

For  he's  yours  .  .  . 

As  well  as  mine  .  .  . 

And  I  must  share  with  you. 

The  Boats  will  soon  be  in, 

And  soon  my  eyes  shall  look  upon  my  sons — 

My  bonnie  sons  .  .   . 

John,  William,  Michael,  Mark, 

And  little  Pete  .  .  . 

Though  even  Peter  is  not  little  now  : 

He's  a  grown  man, 

Though  he's  my  youngest  son. 

And  still  .  .  . 

It  seems  but  such  a  little  while 

Since  I  held  John, 

My  eldest, 

In  my  arms, 

As  now  .  .  . 

I  hold  his  son. 

But  .  .  .  lass  .  .  .  away  ! 

To  greet   .  .   .  your  husband  .  .  . 

And  .  .   .  my  son  .  .  . 

Agnes.     O  God,  have  pity  ! 

Emma.     She  does  not  know  what  she  is  saying  ■ 
Her  grief  has  been  too  much  for  hei. 

67  b   2 


"THE   FAMILY'S   PRIDE" 

Martha.     Away  .  .  .  away  .  .  . 
You'll  be  too  late  .  .  . 
But,  Katherine, 
Stay  with  me  .  .  . 
I  think  .  .  . 
I've  suddenly  grown  old, 
And  I  would  have  you  with  me  .  .  . 
Till  .  .  .  they  come. 

Emma.     Look  to  the  child  ! 
She  doesn't  know  .  .  . 
'Twill  fall ! 

Agnes.     Nay,  but  I  have  it  safe. 
Emma.     The  end  is  not  far  off. 
Katherine.     Come,  mother, 
Lay  your  head  upon  my  bosom. 

Martha.     Ah,  daughter,  is  that  you  ? 
Yes,  I  am  weary  .  .  . 
And  would  rest  awhile  .  .  . 
I  hope  they'll  come 
Before  it's  cold  .  .  . 
And  you  have  set  five  plates  ? 
And  not  forgotten  Peter's  knife  ? 
The  Boats  will  soon  be  in  .  .  . 
And  I  shall  look  upon  my  sons, 
Once  more,  before  I  die  .  .  . 
For  I  am  nigh  death,  Katherine  .  .  . 
Hark  .  .  .  they  come  .  .  . 
Their  feet  are  on  the  threshold  .  .  . 

Katherine,  quick  .  .  . 

68 


'4  THE   FAMILY'S   PRIDE  '' 


Fling  the  door  wide  .  .  . 

That  I  .  .  .  may  look  .  .  . 

On  them  .   .  . 

My  sons  .  .  . 

My  sons  .  .  . 

Oh! 

Katherine.     Death  has  pitied  her. 


69 


THE    GARRET 

Persons :  Isaac  Oxley. 
Adah  Robson. 

Scene:  A  garret  in  the  slums,  furnished  only  with  a  bed. 
It  is  almost  midnight ;  but  Adah  Robson,  with 
her  hat  and  jacket  on,  and  an  old  carpet-bag  by  her 
side,  sits  on  an  empty  box  by  the  window,  in  the 
light  reflected  from  the  lamps  in  the  court  below. 
Presently  a  step  is  heard  on  the  stairs ;  the  door 
opens,  and  Isaac  Oxley  enters. 

Isaac.     You  .  .  .  Adah  .  .  .  here ! 

Adah.     Yes,  Isaac,  I  have  come. 

Isaac.     Come  .  .  .  Adah  .  .  .  come  ? 
But  how've  you  come  so  far  ? 

Adah.     Much  of  the  way  I  walked ; 
And  only  took  the  train, 
When  I  could  trail  no  farther. 

Isaac     'Twas  a  long  way  for  you  to  come  alone. 
And  how,  lass,  did  you  find  me — 
You,  who  had  never  seen  a  bigger  town 
Than  Morton,  with  its  one  long,  straggling  street  ? 

70 


THE   GARRET 

Adah.     I  had  the  letter  with  me  that  you  wrote, 
So  long  ago. 

And  folk  were  good  to  me. 
And,  when  I  was  dumfounded  by  the  noise, 
And  by  the  throngs  of  people 
That,  like  a  never-ending  flock  of  sheep, 
Met  in  a  narrow  lane, 
Daft  with  the  yapping  of  the  dogs, 
Scurried  and  jostled  round  me, 
Some  one  would  pity  my  bewilderment, 
And  put  me  on  the  way  ; 
Though  many  that  I  asked 
Had  never  even  heard  of  Barker's  Court. 
But  all  of  them  were  kind, 
And  did  their  best  to  help  me. 

Isaac.     How  long  have  you  been  here  ? 
Adah.     Close  on  three  hours. 
Isaac.     So  long ! 
Adah.     I  could  have  cried, 
I  was  so  wearied  ; 
And  after  all, 
When  I  got  here,  to  find  you  out ! 

Isaac.     I'm  sorry,  lass. 
If  I'd  but  known  .  .  . 

Adah.     The  neighbours  could  not  tell  me  where  you 
were  ; 
But  thought  that  night 
Would  bring  you  home. 
Isaac     Home,  lass  ! 

7i 


THE   GARRET 

It's  well  that  you  won  hither, 

Safe  through  the  streets. 

Were  you  not  frightened,  Adah  ? 

Adah.     Though  sore  bewildered, 
I  was  not  afraid. 
The  folk  were  kind. 

Isaac.     Aye,  folk  are  kind  enough, 
As  far  as  words  go, 
And  are  always  willing 
To  squander  breath  on  strangers  ; 
For  city-folk  are  not  like  hill-folk,  Adah. 
But  why  did  you  leave  home  ? 

Adah.     To  come  to  you  .  .  . 
But  you're  not  pleased  to  see  me. 

Isaac.     Yes,  lass ;  you  know  .  .  .  but 

Adah.     Mother  died  last  week, 
And  I  have  no  one  else  to  turn  to. 
And,  Isaac,  when  you  went  away, 
You  said  you'd  come  again  for  me ; 
And  that  is  nigh  a  year  since. 
I  waited  for  you  ; 
Yet  you  never  came. 
And  when  my  mother  died, 
I  had  no  home ; 
And  so  I  thought  .  .  . 
But,  maybe,  I  did  wrong 
To  come  to  you  like  this. 
But  you  .  .  . 
You  said  .  .  . 


THE  GARRET 

And  still  you  did  not  come ; 
And  only  wrote  one  letter. 
Why  did  you  never  come  for  me  ? 
You  said  you  would, 
When  you  had  found  .  .  . 

Isaac.     When  I  had  found  a  home  for  you. 
But  I  have  found  no  home. 

Adah.     Yet  this  .  .  . 

Isaac.     This  is  no  home  for  you — 
This  empty  garret. 

Adah.     It's  bare ; 
Still,  we  soon  .  .  . 

Isaac.     We  soon  ! 
Nay,  you  must  not  stay  here  : 
You  must  go  back  again. 

Adah.     I  must  go  back? 

Isaac.     You  must  go  home. 

Adah.     I  have  no  home  .   .  . 
I  thought  .  .  . 
But  I  did  wrong  to  come. 
Forgive  me,  Isaac  ;  yet  .   .  . 

Isaac.     O  Adah,  lass, 
There's  nothing  to  forgive. 
But  you  can  never  live  here — 
Here  in  this  reeking  hell. 
And  I  .  .   . 
How  could  I  bear  to  see  you  starve  .  .   , 

Adah.     To  see  me  starve  ! 
Why  should  I  starve? 


THE   GARRET 

For  I  am  strong ; 
And  I  can  work. 

Isaac.     When  I  came  to  the  city  first, 
I,  too,  was  strong ; 
And  I  could  work ; 
And  yet, 
I  starve. 

Adah.     Starve,  Isaac  ! 
Oh,  but  you  are  thin  and  worn  ! 
While  you  were  standing  in  the  dark, 
I  did  not  see  ; 

But  now  the  light  falls  on  you, 
You  look  famished. 
Are  you  not  working  Isaac  ? 
Are  you  ill — 
Too  ill  to  work  ? 

Isaac.     Nay,  Adah,  I'm  not  ill, 
Save  for  the  want  of  work. 

Adah.     A  man  like  you, 
Who  used  to  work  .  .  . 

Isaac.     Aye,  lass, 
While  there  was  work  for  me. 
You  know  how  hard  I  toiled  at  home, 
Until  my  father  died, 
And  Stephen  married  ; 
And  there  was  room  for  me  no  longer ; 
And  not  a  cottage  in  the  countryside 
That  I  could  get, 
For  love  or  money, 

74 


THE   GARRET 

To  make  a  home 

For  you  and  me. 

And  I  was  forced  to  turn  my  back 

On  all  familiar  things — 

On  all  that  I'd  grown  up  with, 

And  all  that  had  not  changed, 

Since  first  I  blinked  in  daylight ; 

To  leave  my  friends, 

And  go  out  into  the  world, 

To  seek  my  fortune  among  strangers — 

A  stranger  among  strangers — 

To  seek  my  fortune  ! 

Adah.     And  have  you  not  found  .  .  . 

Isaac.     My  fortune  ? 
Aye,  here  is  my  fortune,  lass, 
This  empty  garret 
In  the  mouth  of  hell. 

Adah.     Yet,  when  you  left, 
You  were  so  full  of  hope, 
And  said  that  in  the  city 
There  would  be  work  enough ; 
Aye,  and  a  home  for  us. 

Isaac.     Yes,  I  was  hopeful, 
For  I  was  strong, 
And  full  of  meat, 

And  did  not  know  in  cities  strong  men  starve- 
Starve  in  the  midst  of  plenty, 
And  wander,  homeless, 
In  a  maze  of  houses. 

75 


THE   GARRET 

Adah.     But,  wherefor  .  .  . 
Isaac.     Because  there  is  no  work  for  them. 
"  If  a  man  toil  not,  neither  shall  he  eat." 
It's  a  just  law,  I  thought, 
While  I  could  labour, 
And  eat  my  fill. 

But  when  there  was  no  work  for  me, 
And  I  saw  many  who  had  never  worked, 
Rich,  and  full-fed,  and  happy, 
While  old  men  starved, 
Because  work  failed  them, 
Things  seemed  quite  different. 
You  know  that  life's  not  easy 
For  us  poor  country  folk  at  any  time ; 
Still,  at  the  worst, 

Up  ere  the  dawn,  and  labouring  till  dark, 
We  somehow  scrape  along 
On  hard-won  earnings ; 
For  while  there's  work,  there's  hope ; 
But  when  work  fails  .   .  . 

Adah.     And  have  you  had  no  work, 
Since  you  left  home  ? 

Isaac.     Nay,  none  that  I  call  work. 

Adah.     How  have  you  lived  ? 

Isaac.     You  know  I'd  saved  a  pound  or  two 
Towards  our  home  .  .  . 

Adah.     But  that  would  never  serve  .  .  . 

Isaac.     Nay,  'twas  soon  gone ; 
Though  I  spent  sparingly  enough,  God  knows  ! 

76 


THE   GARRET 

I  should  have  died  without  it. 

It's  hungry  tramping  through  the  streets  all  day, 

From  works  to  works, 

And  standing  in  the  throng 

Outside  the  factory  gates, 

Still  hoping  against  hope,  that  when  they  open, 

I,  too,  may  be  allowed  to  slip  inside. 

But  times  are  bad  ; 

And  when  the  gates  close  to, 

I  ever  find  myself  among  the  crowd, 

Shut  out  from  work  and  bread. 

Adah.     How  have  you  lived  ? 

Isaac.     Why,  lass,  I  hardly  know — 
An  odd  job  here  and  there  ; 
Enough  to  put  a  copper  in  the  pocket  ; 
Still,  never  fit  work  for  a  man  like  me. 
These  hands,  lass,  were  not  made 
To  open  carriage  doors — 
These  arms  to  carry  papers — 
And  this  big,  hulking  body, 
To  scramble  in  the  gutter 
With  starveling  boys  for  life  ! 

Adah.     Nay,  surely  ! 

Isaac.     O  Adah,  you  must  go  away  from  here ; 
For  here  men  starve  ; 
Aye,  men  and  women  starve ; 
And  starving  folk  are  ill  to  live  with. 
Such  sights  I've  seen  ! 

I  did  not  think  that  hell  could  hold  such  sights. 

77 


THE   GARRET 

But  here,  where  hundreds  hunger, 

And  wander  shelterless  at  night, 

Or  sleep  beneath  dark  arches, 

Or  on  cold  benches,  wrapped  in  soaking  fog, 

Here  .  .  .  here  is  hell  !  .  .  . 

Go  .  .  .  go  .  .  .  before  .  .  . 

Adah.     O  Isaac,  you  are  ill ! 

Isaac.     Nay,  I'm  not  ill  ! 

Adah.     Yet  you  seem  faint. 

Isaac.     Naught  ails  me — save  starvation. 
One  cannot  trudge  all  day 
Without  a  bite  .  .  . 

Adah.     Oh,  you  are  famished  ! 
And  I'm  hungry  too, 
For  I've  had  little  since  1  left. 
I  thought  to  find  you  sooner, 
And  then  together  .  .  . 

Isaac.     You  are  hungry,  Adah  ! 
And  I  have  nought  to  offer, 
Not  a  crust. 

The  cupboard  is  quite  empty, 
As  empty  as  my  pocket. 
I  have  not  earned  a  copper  all  day  long. 

Adah.     But  I've  some  money,  Isaac, 
Though  not  much ; 
Still,  a  few  shillings. 
There  was  little  left 
When  mother  died. 
Yet,  while  there  is  a  penny, 

78 


THE    GARRET 

Why  should  we  sit  and  hunger  ? 

I'll  go  and  buy  some  food, 

If  there's  a  bite  to  get  at  such  an  hour. 

Isaac.     Yes,  there  is  always  food  to  get  .  .  . 
For  money. 

Adah.     Then  I  will  go  .  .  . 

Isaac.     Nay,  you  shall  not  go  down 
Into  that  hell  at  such  a  time  of  night. 
I'll  get  the  food. 

Adah.     But  you're  too  weak. 

Isaac.     Nay,  I  am  strong  enough  . 
It  is  not  far. 

Adah.     Then  take  the  purse. 

Isaac.     Nay,  lass ;  it's  safer  here ; 
And  sixpence  is  enough  to  buy  a  feast. 
It's  long  since  I've  had  silver  in  my  hand. 
Would  God  that  I  had  earned  it  ! 
I  hardly  like  to  take  your  money. 

Adah.     O  Isaac,  I  am  famished  ! 

Isaac.     I'll  not  be  long. 

[He  goes  out,  and  is  heard  hurrying  downstairs. 
Adah  takes  off  her  hat  and  jacket,  and  un- 
packs her  bag,  laying  her  scanty  stock  of 
clothes  and  other  belongings  o?t  the  bed ;  then, 
unfolding  a  parcel,  she  takes  out  a  cheap  tin 
clock  and  winds  it  up,  and  sets  it  o?i  the  man- 
telpiece, where  it  ticks  loudly  in  the  vacant 
silence.     After  a  while  Isaac  returns,  carry- 

79 


THE   GARRET 

inga  basin  of  coffee  and  a  chunk  of  bread, 
which  he  lays  on  a  box  beside  Adah.] 

Adah.     So  quickly  ! 

Isaac.     'Twas  not  far ; 
And  I  came  back  as  quickly  as  I  could, 
Lest  it  should  get  too  cold, 
And  filled  with  fog. 
Come,  take  a  drink, 
While  there's  some  heat  in  it ; 
'Twill  do  you  good. 

Adah.     Nay,  you  drink  first. 
You  need  it  more  than  I. 

Isaac.     Nay,  lass,  it's  yours. 
And  I — I  have  no  cup. 
I  paid  a  penny  for  the  basin  ; 
But  they  will  make  that  good  again, 
When  I  return  it. 

Adah.     You'd  not  take  it  back — 
The  first  thing  that  you've  bought  to  set  up  house  with  ! 
If  you've  no  cup, 

Can  we  not  drink  together  from  the  basin, 
As  man  and  wife 
In  their  own  home  ? 
We  are  not  strangers. 

Isaac.     Set  up  house  .  .  . 
As  man  and  wife  .  .  . 
Together  .  .  . 
In  their  home  .  .  . 
Nay,  lass, 

50 


THE   GARRET 

That  cannot  be. 

You  shall  not  starve  for  my  sake. 

Oh,  had  you  seen  the  faces  round  the  stall  — 

The  hungry  faces  in  the  flare 

Of  naphtha,  and  the  eyes 

That  glared  out  from  the  shadows  greedily ; 

And  as  I  passed  them  with  the  coffee, 

The  cold,  blue  lips  that  drank  up  the  rich  steam, 

As  though  they  feasted  .  .  . 

Adah.     And  you'd  naught  for  them  ! 

Isaac.     To  one  poor  girl  I  gave 
A  penny  of  your  money  ; 
A  child,  almost,  she  seemed  ! 

But  she  was  naught  but  skin  and  bone,  and  rags — 
And  oh,  such  eyes  ; 
I  little  thought  I'd  live  to  see 
That  look  in  any  girl's  eyes. 
But  when  the  body  starves, 
The  best  of  us  are  weak  ; 
And  there's  small  blame 
To  such  as  she. 

Adah.     Come  drink  your  coffee,  lad. 
It's  long  since  we  two  supped  together. 

Isaac.     A  merry  meeting  this  ! 
Hark! 

What  is  that  ? 
A  clock  ! 
Where  did  it  come  from  ? 

Adah.     Don't  you  know  it,  Isaac? 

Si  <j 


THE  GARRET 

I  brought  it  with  me  ; 

It's  my  very  own. 

They  could  not  take  it  from  me. 

I'd  paid  for  it  at  Morton  Fair 

With  my  own  money. 

And,  while  you  were  gone, 

I  took  it  from  my  bag, 

And  wound  it  up. 

Things  seemed  more  homelike 

When  I  heard  it  ticking. 

Isaac.     Homelike  .  .  . 
Aye,  Adah,  there's  a  kind  of  comfort 
In  listening  to  the  ticking  of  a  clock. 
That  coffee's  made  another  man  of  me. 
This  garret  never  seemed  like  home  before. 
Yet,  since  you  came,  somehow  .  .  . 

But  you  must  go  to-morrow. 

Adah.     Go  .  .  .  Isaac  .  .  .  where  ? 
Isaac.     I  do  not  know. 

I  only  know, 

If  you  stay  here, 

You'll  starve. 

Adah.     And  if  I  go,  I'll  starve, 

Why  should  we  starve  apart, 

But  we'll  not  starve,  lad, 

If  we  stick  together. 

We'll  win  through  somehow. 

Though  there's  none  for  you, 

There  may  be  work  for  me  ; 

82 


THE   GARRET 
And  better  times  will  come. 


-> 


And  bring  you  work. 

Isaac.     I've  trudged  the  streets, 
All  day  .  .  . 

Adah.     But  that  day's  gone  \ 
And  has  not  even  it  brought  something  to  you  ? 

Isaac      Aye  \  though  it's  been  a  black  and  bitter  day — 
The  ending's  brave. 
If  there  were  no  to-morrow  .  .  . 

Adah.     We  don't  know  what  to-morrow  brings. 

Isaac.     To-morrow  ! 
Lass,  have  I  not  said 
Unto  my  heart  each  night 
To-morrow  will  bring  work  ? 
And  yet,  to-morrow 
Comes  ever  empty-handed. 

Adah.     Nay,  surely,  Isaac, 
Yesterday  your  garret 

Was  bare  save  for  the  bed  and  this  old  box. 
Now  have  you  not  a  clock  and  basin 
To  start  housekeeping  with  ? 

Isaac.     And  you  ? 

Adah.     If  you  will  let  me  stay  .  .  . 

Isaac.     If  I  will  let  you  ...  let  you  .  .  . 
O  lass,  I  cannot  let  you  go  again, 
Though  we  should  starve  .  .  . 

Adah.     We  shall  not  starve  .  .  . 
But  live  and  work  together.  [The  dock  strikes.} 

Isaac.     It's  a  brave  clock. 

83  G    2 


THE   GARRET 

Adah.     What !  three,  already  ! 
And  to-morrow  comes. 
The  day  is  not  far  off, 
Though  it  is  dark. 

Isaac.     Aye,  lass ; 
And  now,  at  home,  the  village  cocks 
Will  all  be  stretching  their  long  necks,  and  crowing. 


S4 

1 


THE    SHIRT 

Scene  :  A  room  in  tenemeiits,  near  the  railway.  Caro- 
line Alder  sits  by  the  fire,  sewing.  Isa  Grey  is 
standing  near  her,  gazing  at  the  blaze.  The  clank  and 
rumble  of  waggons  being  shunted  sounds  loudly  through 
the  night-air. 

Caroline.     Aye,  lass,  the  shirt's  for  Will ; 
I'll  not  be  sorry  when  it's  finished, 
Though  it's  the  last  I'll  make  for  him. 

Isa.     The  last  ? 

Caroline.     You'll  make  the  next,  I  trust. 
You,  surely,  don't  expect,  my  girl, 
I'll  still  be  making  for  him,  when  he's  married  ? 
You're  much  mistaken  .  .  . 

Isa.     Nay  !   .  .  . 
But,  when  you  said  the  last,  somehow  .... 

Caroline.     The  very  last ! 
And  well  I  mind  the  first  I  made, 
Or  ever  he  was  born, 
Nigh  twenty  year  ago  y 
And  I  was  but  a  lass,  like  you ;  • 
And,  as  I  sewed  it,  by  the  fire, 
His  father  sat  and  watched  me ;  and  we  talked  .  ,  , 

85 


THE   SHIRT 

We  talked  of  him    .  .  . 

His  father  always  hoped  'twould  be  a  boy ; 

And  yet,  before  he  came 

To  wear  the  shirt,  I'd  made  for  him  .  .  . 

Isa.     His  father  never  saw  him  ? 

Caroline.     Nay  ;  he'd  not  leave  his  engine, 

Although  the  fireman  leapt  .  .  . 

[A  pause.] 

But  'twas  a  dainty  shirt ! 
For  I  had  eyes  in  those  days, 
And  nimble  fingers  too — 
You  never  saw  the  like. 
Why,  this  would  make  a  score  of  it ; 
He's  grown  a  bit  since  then  ! 
See,  what  a  neck  and  shoulders— 
His  father's,  to  an  inch  ! 
You'll  have  your  work  set  .  .  . 
Isa.     Yes,  it's  big  enough. 
Caroline.     He's  just  his  father's  spit  and  image  ; 

And  he's  his  father,  in  more  ways  than  one. 

I've  never  had  a  wrong  word  from  his  lips. 

However  things  have  gone  with  him, 

He  always  comes  in  just  as  he  went  out. 

You're  lucky,  lass,  as  I  was  .  .  . 

Though  I  .  .  . 

And  now  I've  made  his  shirts  for  twenty  year, 

Just  twenty  year,  come  Michaelmas. 

He's  aye  slept  snugly  in  my  handiwork. 

At  one  time,  I  could  scarce  keep  pace  with  him ; 

86 


THE    SHIRT 

He  sprouted  up  so  quickly  ; 

And  every  year,  I've  had  to  cut  them  bigger, 
Till  now  that  he's  a  man,  fullgrown  .   .  . 
And  still,  to-night,  somehow,  I  almost  wish 
That  I  was  hemming  baby-shirts  again, 
His  father,  sitting  by  me,  as  I  sewed  .  .   . 
But  you  will  soon  be  stitching,  lass  .   .  . 

Isa.     I  wonder  .   .   . 
How  clearly  we  can  hear  the  trains,  to-night ! 

Caroline.     Perhaps  the  air  is  frosty; 
Though  I  have  always  seemed  to  hear  them  clearer 
Since  .   .   .  since  his  father  .   .   . 
Isa.     I  hate  to  hear  them  clanking. 
Caroline.     Aye,  lass  ;  but  you'll  get  used  to  it, 
Before  you've  lived  here,  long. 
I  couldn't  sleep  at  night  without  it  now. 
Once,  when  I  stayed  at  Mary's, 
I  could  not  sleep  a  wink  .   .   . 
The  quiet  seemed  so  queer  .   .   . 
I  missed  the  clank  .   .   . 

Isa.     I  never  shall  get  used  to  it. 
I  hate  that  clanking  .   .   . 
I  wish  that  Will  could  leave  the  shunting  .   .   . 
Caroline.     Aye,  coupling's  chancy  work  ; 
But,  life's  a  chancy  thing,  at  best. 
And  other  jobs  arc  bad  to  get ; 
And  he's  a  steady  lad. 
Isa.     Yet,  if  he  slipped  ! 
Caroline.     There's  little  fear  of  him  ; 

3? 


THE    SHIRT 

He's  always  been  surefooted,  from  a  boy ; 

And  such  a  nerve  ! 

I've  seen  him  walk  the  tiles  .  .  . 

Isa.     To  think  that  he'll  be  at  it  all  night  long  ! 

Caroline.     Well,  he  must  take  his  shift  among  the 

rest. 

It's  hard,  at  first,  to  miss  your  man,  at  night ; 

But,  wives  must  needs  get  used  to  it. 

My  man  was  often  gone  from  me, 

The  day  and  night  together ; 

And  it  was  on  the  nightshift  .  .  . 

He  hadn't  slept  a  wink  for  days, 

For  he'd  been  sitting  up  with  me — 

The  doctor  thought  I'd  scarce  pull  through — 

But  he'd  to  go,  and  leave  me. 

I  never  saw  him  more. 

They'd  buried  him,  and  all, 

Ere  I  was  out  of  bed  again. 

[Pause.] 
But,  that  was  long  ago — 

Nigh  twenty  year — 

And  now,  his  son's  a  man ; 

And  soon  to  marry. 

There,  lass  :  it's  almost  done  : 

I've  just  one  button  now  .  .  . 

Isa.     I'll  sew  it  on. 
I've  never  done  a  stitch  for  him. 

Caroline.     Nay  !  it's  the  last  I'll  make  for  him  : 
And  no  one  else  must  have  a  hand  in  it. 

88 


THE   SHIRT 

You'll  have  enough  to  do, 

Before  you've  long  been  married  .  .  . 

Isa.     I  wonder  .  .  . 

Caroline.     Wonder,  lass  ! 
What's  wrong  with  you  to-night  ? 
You  seem  so  .  .  .  why,  you're  all  atremble  ! 

Isa.     The  trains  have  stopped  .  .  . 
I  cannot  hear  a  sound. 

Caroline.     Aye,  lass  :  it's  queer  .  .  . 
But,  soon  they'll  start  again. 
I  never  knew  such  quiet  .  .   . 

Isa.     That  they  would  all  start  clanking  ! 
I  cannot  bear  the  silence  .  .  . 

Caroline.     It's  time  that  you  were  getting  home  to 
bed: 
You're  overwrought  to-night. 

Isa.     I  wish  I  knew  .  .  . 
There's  not  a  sound  yet  .   .   . 

Caroline.     Nay,  lass,  hark  ! 

[An  express  thunders  by,  shaking  the  houses.^ 

Isa.     Well,  I'll  be  getting  home. 
Goodnight ! 

Caroline.     Goodnight ! 
There,  that's  the  last  stitch  done. 
Is't  not  a  brave  shirt,  lass  ! 
It's  ready  for  him  when  he  comes. 

[Isa  goes  out,  and  down  the  stairs. } 

She's  overwrought  a  bit. 

89 


THE   SHIRT 

About  the  time  that  I  was  wed  .  .  . 
It's  strangely  quiet  now  again  .  .  . 
I  never  knew  .  .  . 

They  must  have  finished  shunting  .  .  . 
Yet  .  .   . 

[She  stands,  listening,  as  a  hurrying  step  is  heard  on 
the  stairs,  and  Isa  bursts  into  the  room,  panting?^ 

Caroline.     What's  wrong,  lass  ! 

Isa.     Will !  O,  Will ! 

Caroline.     Speak,  woman,  speak  ! 

Isa.     They're  bringing  him  .  .   . 
I  met  them  in  the  street  .  .  . 
O  Will !     O  Will ! 

Caroline.     His  son  .  .  .  too  .  .  . 

[Caroline  picks  up  the  shirt  which  has  fallen  from 
her  hand.  They  stand  silent  waiting :  and  there  is  no 
sound  in  the  room,  until  the  shunting  of  waggons  starts 
again,  when  Isa  puts  her  fingers  to  her  ears,  and  sinks 
to  the  ground.] 

Isa.     'Twill  never  stop  again ; 
I'll  always  hear  .   .  . 


9° 


THE    MOTHER 

Persons :  Rose  Allen,  a  young  widow. 
Her  Child. 
Annie  Featherstone,  Rose  Allen's  sister. 

Scene:  A  lonely  moorland  cottage,  in  the  early  morning. 
The  child  sleeps  on  the  bed.  Annie  Featherstone 
is  tending  the  fire  when  Rose,  dressed  as  for  a  holiday, 
enters  fro?n  the  other  room. 

Annie.     You  are  not  going,  surely, 
After  all  ! 

Rose.     Why  not  ? 
The  boy  is  better. 

Annie.     Better,  Rose? 

Rose.     Well,  he's  no  worse  to-day  than  yesterday. 

Annie.     I  think  he's  worse. 

Rose.     You  think  ? 
You  always  think  the  worst  of  everything. 
Don't  you  remember  .  .  . 

Annie.     I  remember  much. 

Rose.     Then  you  must  know 
How  often  you've  cried  "  wolf !  " 
Already,  Annie. 

91 


THE   MOTHER 

Had  you  but  children  of  your  own, 

You'd  know  how  little  makes  them  sick, 

How  quickly  they  recover  ; 

And  would  not  fret  yourself 

At  every  baby  ailment, 

Nor  see  a  tragedy 

In  every  prick  or  scratch. 

He  sleeps, 

And  little  ails  a  child  when  he  can  sleep. 
Annie.     But  how  he  tosses  ! 

It's  no  healthy  slumber. 

His  hands  are  hot  and  restless, 

His  brow's  afire — 

Come,  feel  it. 

Rose.     Why,  that's  nothing,  Annie. 
It's  the  old  story — 
Spinster's  children  .  .  . 
You  know  the  rest. 

Annie.     I  know  the  rest. 
Rose.     Ah,  well  ! 
But  you  should  know  a  mother 
Has  something  else  to  do 
Than  break  her  heart,  whenever 
A  fractious  baby  pukes  and  pules, 
Or  sit  and  weep  her  eyes  out 
At  every  scratch  and  tumble. 
How  should  we  get  through  life, 
If  we  paid  heed 
To  every  whine  and  whimper  ? 

92 


THE   MOTHER 

But  even  you 

Will  learn  in  time,  perhaps, 

And  .  .   . 

Annie.     Even  I  ! 

Rose.     Yes,  even  you. 
But  don't  be  angry  with  me, 
And  think  that  I  don't  love  my  child. 
You  know  how  much  I  love  him, 
Though  he's  so  troublesome ; 
And  how  I've  worked 
My  fingers  to  the  bone 
To  keep  him,  since  his  father  died. 
My  life  is  hard  enough,  God  knows  ! 
And  must  i  miss  the  little  fun  life  offers  ? 
I  get  so  little  pleasure  ; 
And  Morton  Fair  comes  only  once  a  year. 
But  you  are  hard, 
And  you'd  deny  me  this. 
Ah,  well  ! 
Then  I  must  stay. 

Annie.     I  would  deny  you  nothing,  child. 

Rose.     You  call  me  "  child  "  ! 
Then  you  are  angry. 
But  I'll  not  quarrel  with  you. 
Child  ! 

Yes,  I'm  young — 
I  wedded  young — 
But  you  are  old  and  wise, 
And  never  cared  for  fairings. 

93 


THE   MOTHER 

There's  but  twelve  months  betwixt  us, 

And  yet,  what  years  and  years  ! 

A  widow  and  a  mother,  too, 

I  am  not  half  as  old. 

I  wonder  if  I'll  ever  be  .  .  . 

Annie.     Nay  you  will  never  be  as  old  as  I  .  .  . 

Rose.     Never? 
How  can  you  know  ? 
Do  you  foretell  my  death  ? 
Shall  I  not  live  to  see  the  year  out  ? 

Annje.     Though  you  should  live  to  see 
A  hundred  years  out, 
You  will  still  be  young. 

Rose.     Ah,  now  I  understand  you. 
You  frightened  me  at  first 
With  your  long  face  and  solemn  words. 
You  mean  my   heart  is  young, 
And  think  I'm  thoughtless. 
Yet,  a  girl 

Can  hardly  go  through  all  that  I've  gone  through, 
And  still  be  thoughtless. 
Annie,  I  know  life 
As  you  have  never  known  it. 


\7he  clock  strikes  ?\ 


Is  that  five  ? 

But  I  must  go, 

If  I'm  to  catch  the  train. 

It's  full  three  hours'  fast  walking. 

I've  stood  too  long  already, 

94 


THE   MOTHER 

Chattering. 

Well,  lass,  good-bye. 

Annie.     You  have  not  kissed  the  boy  "  good-bye." 

Rose.     He  sleeps  so  soundly, 
I'll  not  waken  him. 
Now,  lass,  you  see 

That  I'm  the  careful  mother  after  all, 
And  I  deny  myself  for  him. 
How  sweet  he  sleeps  ! 
I'll  bring  him  home  a  fairing 
Which  he  will  like  far  better 
Than  all  your  precious  kisses. 
And  now  you're  angry  with  me, 
Though  I  meant  nothing,  Annie. 
You  must  not  worry  so. 
You  know  I  love  him, 
And  would  bide  at  home, 
Did  I  not  know  I  leave  him 
In  safe  hands. 
Still,  if  you  mind  .  .  . 

Annie.     I  do  not  mind. 

Rose.     Good-bye,  then. 
I  could  not  leave  the  boy  in  better  hands. 

[Goes  out.] 
Annie.     And  she  has  gone  through  all, 
And  yet, 
Knows  naught ! 
Life  has  not  touched  her, 
Though  a  man  has  spent 

95 


THE   MOTHER 

His  whole  heart's  love  on  her ; 
And  she  has  stood 
Beside  her  husband's  deathbed  ; 
And  borne  his  child  within  her  womb, 
Yet,  she's  unchanged, 
And  still  a  child, 

As  ignorant  of  life  as  her  poor  babe. 
While  I,  whom  life  denied 
All,  save  the  yearning, 
I  am  old  at  heart. 
Life  fed  her  to  the  full, 
While  I  went  hungry  for  the  crumbs. 
Already  I  am  old  and  famine-worn, 
While  she  is  young  and  careless. 
Passion  has  brought  no  tenderness  to  her ; 
She  never  has  known  love — 
Nay,  though  she  drank  a  strong  man's  love, 
His  very  life-blood,  yet, 
She  knew  not  what  she  drank. 
She  drained  that  draught 
As  though  'twere  water, 
And  soon  forgot  the  cup, 
When  it  was  empty, 
And  broken  at  her  feet. 
And  now  the  crystal  spring  of  baby-love 
Is  spilt  in  vain  for  her, 
While  I  am  parched, 
And  thirst  for  one  sweet  drop. 
Ah,  God,  have  I  not  thirsted  ! 

96 


THE   MOTHKK 

And  yet  the  cup 

Has  ever  passed  my  lips, 

Untasted  .  .  . 

Now  I  never  shall  drink  life. 

His  love  had  not  been  spent,  in  vain, 

On  me, 

Had  life  but  let  him  love  me, 

As  I  loved. 

But  he  .  .  . 

He  was  so  happy  in  his  love, 

And  I — I  loved 

To  see  him  happy  in  his  love. 

And  still  my  selfish  heart 

Was  often  sore 

That  he  could  be  so  happy, 

While  I  .  .  . 

And  yet, 

He  never  knew  of  my  unhappiness, 

For  Rose  was  all  the  world  to  him  ; 

And  I, 

But  Rose's  shadow — 

She,  ever  fresh  and  fair, 

And  I,  so  gloomy  ; 

And  he  loved  the  light, 

And  never  knew  his  star  was  cold  at  hearL 

Thank  God,  he  did  not  know — 

Not  even  in  the  end  ! 

What  would  not  I  have  given  for  the  right 

To  stand  beside  him  at  the  last, 

97  H 


THE   MOTHER 

And  hold  his  hand  in  mine — 
To  lay  that  weary  head  upon  my  bosom  ! 
I  burned  with  love  for  him. 
And  still,  denied  all  else, 
Had  it  been  mine 

To  bring  him  balm  and  quiet  in  the  end, 
And  spend  on  him  a  mother's  tenderness, 
I  should  have  been  content  ...  I  think  .  .  . 
And  yet, 

Had  things  been  otherwise, 
Was  not  my  heart 
His  heart's  true  mate  ? 
But  he  .  .  . 

His  child  another  bore  him, 
And  scarcely  knew  that  'twas  his  child — 
His  child,  that  should  have  brought  into  her  breast 
The  milk  of  tenderness, 
And  to  her  heart,  the  light  of  understanding. 
His  child,  and  fatherless  ! 
But  motherhood  to  her  meant  little. 
A  cold  and  careless  wife, 
So  is  she  now  a  careless  mother. 
The  pangs  and  labouring 
Of  travail  taught  her  nothing. 
She  rose  from  off  her  bearing-bed 
As  easily  as  she  had  left 
The  deathbed  of  her  love. 
'Twas  I,  indeed, 
Who  bore  the  pangs  of  travail 

98 


THE   MOTHER 

To  bring  his  child  to  birth — 

Aye,  even  as  on  me 

Fell  the  whole  burden  of  the  husband's  death. 

\The  child  ivakens  and  stirs  restlessly. 

The  Child.     Mother  ! 

Annie.     Yes,  son. 
He  does  not  know  me. 
And  am  not  I  his  mother  ! 
She  only  bore  his  body  .  .  . 

The  Child.     Mother,  a  drink. 

Annie.     And  she  .  .  . 
She  is  not  here  ! 
Drink  this,  my  son. 
You  are  his  son  .  .  .  and  mine  ! 
Your  young  soul  was  brought  forth 
Of  my  great  love  for  him, 
The  father  of  your  soul. 
Have  I  not  mothered  it, 
And  nurtured  its  young  life 
With  my  heart's  love, 
And  fed  it  on  the  milk  of  tenderness  ? 
He  sleeps  again,  our  child. 
Her  eyes  he  has  • 
But  when  he  sleeps, 
She  has  no  part  in  him. 
Then  he  is  all  his  father  .  .  . 
And  all  mine — 
All  mine,  all  mine, 
My  babe,  my  babe  ! 

99  h  2 


THE   MOTHER 

He  sleeps  .  .   . 
And  yet  .  .  . 
I  fear  .   .  . 
He  lies  so  still. 

0  God,  and  I, 
His  mother, 
Can  do  naught, 
Alone  and  helpless, 
In  this  wilderness  ! 
Had  she  not  gone  .   .   . 
But  I, 

What  can  I  do  ? 

1  dare  not  leave  him,  yet  scarce  dare  to  bide 
If  there  were  but  a  neighbour  .  .  . 

But  where  could  I  seek  help  .  .  . 

If  help  there  be  at  all 

For  him  in  this  world  now  ? 

He  stirs  again. 

Nay,  I  must  stay  with  hims 

My  babe,  my  babe  ! 

Don't  fear ; 

I'll  not  forsake  you  ! 

And,  in  the  end, 

You  shall  not  lack  a  mother's  hand 

Upon  your  brow, 

Nor  lack  a  mother's  bosom 

On  which  to  lay  your  head. 

The  Child.     Mother.  .  .  . 
A  drink  .  .  . 

ioo 


THE   MOTHER 

Annie.     Your  thirst  is  quenched. 

Those  lips  will  never  breathe  that  word  again. 

Much  have  I  craved  of  life  .  .  . 

And  it  is  given  unto  me 

To  close  your  eyes  in  death. 

My  child,  my  child  ! 

Now  you  are  ours,  all  ours  .  .  . 

All  his  .  .  .  and  mine  ! 

[The  day  wears  slowly  through  as  Annie  watches 
by  the  dead  child.     In  the  late  afternoon  the 
door  ope?iS)  and  Rose  Allen  enters.] 
Rose.     Am  I  not  a  good  mother? 

I've  left  the  Fair  half  over. 

I  could  not  stay, 

For  something  made  me  anxious. 

Your  words  kept  dinning  in  my  ears, 

And  spoilt  the  fun  ; 

And  so  I  left  quite  early ; 

And  yet, 

I  did  not  quite  forget  my  boy, 

Though  I'm  so  careless,  Annie. 

I  bring  a  fairing  for  him 

See! 

A  jumping  .   .  . 

Does  he  sleep  ? 

He  lies  so  very  still. 

Annie.     Yes,  he  sleeps  sound. 


IOI 


THE    FURNACE 

Persons :  Jacob  Pringle,  a  stoker. 

Eleanor  Pringle,  his  wife. 

Their  Children. 

Bessie  Purdham,  a  neighbour. 

Scene:  A  room  in  tenements.  Jacob  Pringle,  his  head 
and  body  swathed  in  bandages,  lies  on  the  bed,  uncon- 
scious, moaning  incessantfy.  Eleanor  Pringle, 
with  her  young  baby  at  her  breast,  stands  near  the 
door,  talking  to  Bessie  Purdham.  The  other  two 
children,  aged  three  and  two  years,  sta?id  silent  by  the 
bed,  gazing  wonderingly  at  their  father. 

Bessie.     I  heard  the  doctor  go ; 
And  so  I've  come 
To  see  if  I  may  help  you. 

Eleanor.     There's  nothing  more  to  do. 

Bessie.     I  thought,  perhaps  .  .  . 

Eleanor      There's  nothing  more  to  do. 
The  doctor  and  the  nurse  did  all  they  could, 
Before  they  left. 
They  only  went, 

I02 


THE   FURNACE 

When  they  could  do  no  good  by  staying. 
They  said  they'd  come  again  to-night, 
If  he  ...  if  he 

Bessie.     Nay,  don't  take  on  so,  woman. 
Your  man  will  soon  be  well  again. 
Keep  a  brave  heart  within  you. 

Eleanor.     The  doctor  says  there's  little  hope. 
Bessie.     'Twas  strange  to  bring  him  here. 
Eleanor.     Here,  to  his  home  ? 
Does  it  seem  strange  to  you 
To  bring  him  home  ? 
Where  would  you  have  him  taken  ? 
They  brought  him  home  .  .  .  Ah,  God  ! 
Bessie.     The  hospital  .  .  . 
Eleanor.     It  was  too  far. 
The  doctor  said  : 
'Twas  not  worth  while 
To  take  him  such  a  journey, 
When  there  was  little  hope. 
And  so, 

They  did  not  pass  the  door, 
To  bear  him  among  strangers, 
But  brought  him  in, 
And  laid  him  on  the  bed. 
'Twas  not  worth  while  .  .   . 
And  so  they  brought  him  home, 
Home  to  his  wife  and  children. 
'Twas  not  worth  while  .   .  . 
Bessie.     How  did  it  happen  ? 

io3 


THE   FURNACE 

Eleanor.     None  can  tell. 

They  found  him  on  his  face 

Before  the  furnace-door, 

The  life  well-nigh  burnt  out  of  him ; 

His  head,  and  breast,  and  hands  .  .  . 

Oh,  it's  too  terrible  to  think  of,  neighbour ! 
Bessie.     He  must  have  fainted. 
Eleanor.     None  will  ever  know, 

Unless  .  .  . 

But,  he's  not  spoken  since. 

He  only  moans,  and  moans ; 

The  doctor  says  that  he's  not  conscious, 

And  cannot  feel  it  much, 

And  mayn't  come  to  himself  again. 

If  he  should  never  speak  ! 

Bessie,     'i  was  strange  that  he  .  .  . 
He  seemed  so  strong  .  .  . 

Eleanor.     They  say  his  shovel 
Had  tumbled  in  the  furnace,  and  the  heat 
Had  crumpled  it  like  paper  ; 
And  it  was  almost  melted ; 
And  he  himself  had  only  fallen  short. 
His  head,  and  breast,  and  hands  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  he  moans  ! 
The  doctor  says  he  cannot  feel  much; 
And  still  he  moans,  and  moans. 
He  has*  not  spoken  .  .  . 
If  he  should  never  speak  .  .  . 
If  he  should  not  come  to  himself  .  .  . 

104 


THE    FURNACE 

If  he  .  .  .  Ah,  God  ! 
And  he  so  young  ! 

Bessie.     How  old's  your  husband  ? 

Eleanor.     Twenty-three  next  March. 

Bessie.     So  young  !     And  you  ? 

Eleanor.     Just  twenty,  turned. 

Bessie.     Why,  you  are  only  children, 
The  pair  of  you  ! 

Eleanor.     Yet  he's  a  father, 
I,  a  mother  .  .  . 

A  father  .  .  .  and  his  children — 
What  can  his  children  do, 
If  he  should  leave  them, 
x\nd  they,  but  babes, 
And  Winter  coming  on  ? 

Bessie.     He  may  be  well  before  then  ; 
And  they've  you. 

Eleanor.     What  can  I  do  without  him. 

Bessie.     You  can  but  do  your  best. 
If  only  they'd  been  boys  .  .  . 
Still,  keep  a  brave  heart,  woman  ; 
For,  surely,  at  the  worst, 
The  masters  will  do  something ; 
And  there'll  be  money  .  .  . 

Eleanor.     Money  .  .  .  woman  .  .  .  money 
I  want  naught  with  their  money. 
I  want  my  husband, 
And  my  children's  father. 
Let  them  pitch  all  their  money  in  the  furnace 

i°5 


THE   FURNACE 

Where  he  .  .  . 

I  wouldn't  touch  a  penny ; 

'Twould  burn  my  fingers. 

Money  .  .  . 

For  him  ! 

Bessie.     You  wouldn't  have  your  children  starve  ? 
Money  is  bread  .  .   . 

Eleanor.     Nay ;  but  I'll  work  for  them  : 
They  shall  not  want, 
While  I  can  lift  a  finger. 
He  loves  them, 

And  has  slaved  so  hard  for  them. 
If  he  can  work  no  more, 
Am  I  not  strong  to  work  ? 
He  is  so  proud  of  them. 
And  oft  when  he  comes  home  .  .  . 
Ah,  God,  they  brought  him  home  ! 
And  he  has  never  spoken  ; 
He  has  no  word  for  them — 
He  who  was  always  cheery, 
And  dandled  them,  and  danced  them, 
And  tossed  them  to  the  ceiling. 
Look,  how  they  wait,  poor  babes  ! 
They  cannot  understand   » 
Why  he  should  say  no  word, 
But  only  moan,  and  moan  .  .  . 
Ah,  how  he  moans  ! 
He  tries  to  speak,  I  think. 
If  he  should  speak  ! 

106 


THE   FURNACE 

Jacob  (in  a  hoarse  whisper).     The  big,  red,   gaping 
mouth  .  .  . 

Eleanor.     Ah,  God,  he's  wandering  ! 

Bessie.     He  thinks  he's  at  the  furnace. 

Jacob.     I  feed,  and  feed,  and  feed  it, 
And  yet  it's  never  full ; 
But  always  gaping,  gaping, 
And  licking  its  red  lips. 
I  feed  it  with  my  shovel, 
All  night  long. 
I  shovel  without  ceasing ; 
But  it  just  licks  the  coke  up  in  a  twinkling, 
And  roars,  and  roars  for  more. 
I  cannot  feed  it  faster ; 
And  it's  angry. 
I  shovel  all  night  long, 
Till  I  can  scarcely  stand. 
The  sweat  pours  out  of  me  ; 
And  then  it  licks  the  sweat  up  with  its  breath, 
And  roars  more  fiercely. 
My  eyes  are  coals  of  fire  ; 
My  arms  can  scarcely  lift 
Another  shovelful  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  it  roars,  and  roars  ! '    It's  angry 
Because  I  cannot  feed  it  fast  enough. 
The  red  tongue  licks  the  shovel, 
As  though  it  would  devour  it. 
The  shovel  is  red-hot  .  .  . 
It  melts  ...  it  melts  .  .  . 

107 


THE   FURNACE 

It's  melting  in  my  hands  .   .  . 

I  cannot  drop  it  .  .  . 

My  hands  are  full  of  molten  iron. 

Water  ...  Ah,  God  ! 

My  hands  ...  my  hands  ! 

Oh! 

Eleanor.     And  there  is  nothing  I  can  do  for  him  ! 
I  am  his  wife  : 
And  still,  I  can  do  nothing. 
The  doctor  said,  there  was  no  more  to  do. 
They  left  me  naught  to  do  for  him. 

Bessie.     Nay,  lass,  there's  nothing  to  be  done. 
He's  quiet  now. 
Perhaps  he'll  sleep. 

Jacob.     The  great,  red  eyes  .  .  . 
They  burn  me  through  and  through. 
They  glare  upon  me  all  night  long ; 
They  never  sleep  : 
But  always  glower  on  me. 
They  never  even  blink ; 
But  stare,  and  stare  .  .  . 
I  cannot  look  upon  them  any  longer — 
I  cannot  face  them  ...  still  ..  . 
Ah,  God,  I  cannot  shut  them  out ! 
They  burn  right  through  my  eyelids, 
And  set  my  eyes  afire. 
My  eye-lids  are  red-hot, 
And  scorch  my  eyes  .  .  . 
My  eyes,  my  eyes  ! 

108 


THE   FURNACE 

Oh,  I  would  tear  them  out  .   .  . 
But  I  ...  I  cannot  lift  my  hands  ; 
They're  full  of  molten  iron. 
My  hands  ! 
Oh! 

Bessie.     He  seems  quite  spent. 
Perhaps  the  worst  is  over. 

Eleanor.     Oh,  would  to  God  .  .  . 
Jacob.     The  big,  red,  gaping  mouth  .  .  . 
It  gapes, 

And  licks  its  lips, 
And  roars,  and  roars  for  food. 
I  cannot  breathe, 
Its  hot  breath  stifles  me. 
It  puffs  at  me, 
Then  tries  to  suck  me  in — 
Into  that  roaring  hell. 
It  gapes  ...  it  gapes  .  .  . 
For  me  ! 

I  cannot  feed  it  fast  enough  ; 
And  it  is  angry, 

And  roars,  and  roars  with  hunger. 
Some  night  the  red  tongue  will  shoot  out  and  lick  me 
Into  that  blazing  hell-mouth- — 
Will  lick  me  to  a  cinder, 
A  handful  of  white  ash. 
It  will  shoot  out  .  .  . 
Ah,  God  ! 
The  fiery  tongue 

109 


THE   FURNACE 

Is  all  about  me  now  j 

It  wraps  me  round  and  round, 

And  licks  me  in. 

At  last  the  furnace  has  me — 

The  furnace  that  I  feared. 

I  burn  .  .  . 

Eleanor.     That  he  should  suffer  so  ! 
Ah,  God,  that  he  might  .  .  . 

The  Eldest  Child.     Mother,  what's  a  furnace  ? 

Eleanor.     Ah,  child,  that  you  should  hear ! 
I  scarcely  knew  you  listened. 
A  furnace  is  the  mouth  .  .  . 
Nay,  it's  a  fire. 
A  big,  big  fire. 

Child.     A  fire  ? 
But  why  is  Daddy  frightened  ? 
I  do  not  fear  the  fire. 
I  sit  quite  close, 
And  warm  my  hands. 
I'd  love  a  big,  big  fire, 
And  would  not  be  afraid  of  it  : 
So,  why  is  Daddy  ? 
I've  often  sat  upon  his  knee, 
Quite  close, 

And  watched  the  pretty  flames. 
He  never  told  me  he  was  frightened, 
Or  I'd  have  held  his  hand 

Eleanor.     And  he  will  nevermore 
Sit  by  the  hearth, 

no 


THE   FURNACE 

His  children  on  his  knee, 
And  listen  to  their  prattle. 
He  was  proud  .  .  . 

Bessie.     He  does  not  moan  so  much, 
And  hardly  moves. 
I  think  .   .  . 
But,  hark  ! 

He  tries  to  speak  again. 
His  voice  is  weaker  ; 
He  can  scarcely  whisper. 

Jacob.     O  mother,  do  you  see  the  little  flame 
That  leaps  above  the  bars, 
And  dances  in  and  out  ? 
Look  how  he  dances,  dances, 
Upon  the  red-hot  coals. 
Oh,  now,  he's  gone — 
He  must  have  heard  me  talking. 
But  there  he  is  again  : 
And  laughing  at  me, 
And  waving  his  red  cap. 

Bessie.     The  worst  is  over. 
He's  easier  now. 

Eleanor.     His  mind  is  wandering  back  to   his   old 
home. 
He's  heard  the  child  ; 
And  thinks  that  he's  a  child,  too. 

Jacob.     I  love  to  watch  the  fire  ; 
And  when  I  am  a  man, 
I'll  mind  a  furnace,  mother, 

in 


THE   FURNACE 

And  feed  it  all  day  long  j 

And  watch  it  blaze ; 

And  listen  to  its  roaring. 

Look,  mother,  do  you  see  the  little  flame, 

That  runs  right  down  into  that  deep,  red  hollow  • 

And  waves  to  me  to  follow  after  ? 

I'd  like  to  follow  him, 

And  run  right  down — 

Right  down  that  golden  lane, 

Among  the  dancing  flames, 

And  dance  with  them. 

Ah,  there  he  is  ; 

And  laughing  at  me, 

And  waving  his  red  cap  .  .  . 

And  dancing  .   .  .  dancing  ...  [A  pause.'] 

Child.     O  mother,  look, 
The  fire  has  gone  quite  out ; 
And  I  am  cold. 

Bessie.     He  moans  no  longer  .  .  . 

Eleanor.     He  seems  more  easy  .  .  . 
He  does  not  stir  .  .  . 
How  quiet  he  has  grown  .   .  . 
It's  strange,  he  lies  so  still, 
So  suddenly  .  .  . 
That  he  would  speak  to  me  ! 

Bessie.     Aye,  he  is  easy  now  ; 
But  he  will  never  stir  again,  nor  speak  .  .   . 

Eleanor.     Jacob  ! 

Child.     He  is  not  frightened  now. 

112 


THE    CHILD 

Persons :  Amos  Woodman. 

Joan  Woodman,  his  wife. 

Scene :  A  garret  in  the  slums.  It  is  afternoon  and  a  gleam 
of  suns/tine,  struggling  through  the  g?-imy  window, 
reveals  the  nakedness  of  the  room,  which  is  quite  bare 
of  furniture.  In  one  corner  Joan  Woodman  crouches 
by  a  heap  of  rags  and  straw,  on  which  is  lying  the  dead 
body  of  her  child.  She  is  a  young  woman,  but  looks 
older  than  her  years,  being  worn  and  haggard  with 
want  and  suffering.  The  door  opens  and  Amos 
"Woodman  enters,  tvearily.  He  is  lame  and  coughs 
almost  incessantly.  As  he  pauses  on  the  threshold,  his 
wife  rises  and  goes  towards  him. 

Joan.     He's  gone. 

Amos.     Forgive  me,  Joan. 

Joan.     Forgive  you,  Amos  ? 

Amos.     Aye,  forgive  me — 
Forgive  me  that  I  left  you  with  the  child. 
I  could  not  bear 
To  sit  and  watch  him  dying, 
When  there  wTas  nothing  I  could  do  to  save  him. 

113  1 


THE   CHILD 

Joan.     'Twas  better  that  you  went. 
It  is  not  good  to  see  a  baby  die  .   .  , 
And  yet  .  .  . 
When  all  was  over, 
I  knew  'twas  best. 
Amos.     Best,  wife  ? 
Joan.     Yes,  husband  ; 
For  he  suffers  nothing  now. 

Amos.     Ah,  how  he  suffered  ! 
And  I, 
His  father, 

Could  do  naught  to  ease  him. 
He  cried  for  bread ; 
And  I — I  had  no  bread — 
I  had  no  bread  to  give  him. 
Perhaps  it's  best  .  .  . 
And  yet  .  .  . 
If  he'd  but  lived  .  .  . 

Joan.     Lived,  Amos? 
It's  not  good  to  see  a  baby  starve — 
To  watch  him  wasting  day  by  day, 
To  hear  him  crying  .  .  . 

Amos.     Yes,  he  cried  for  bread — 
And  I,  his  father,  had  no  bread  to  give  him. 
I  would  have  worked  these  fingers  to  the  bone, 
To  save  him — 
To  the  bone  ! 
They're  little  else  already. 
But  times  are  bad, 

114 


THE   CHILD 

And  work  is  slack, 

And  so  I  needs  must  watch  my  baby  starving — 

Must  sit  with  idle  hands  and  see  him  starving — 

Must  watch  him  starve  to  death ; 

His  little  body  wasting  day  by  day ; 

The  hunger  gnawing  at  his  little  life ; 

His  weak  voice  growing  weaker. 

He  cried  for  bread  .  .  . 

Joan.     He'll  cry  no  more. 
He  feels  no  hunger  now ; 
And  wants  for  nothing. 

Amos.     Aye,  he's  quiet  .  .  . 
We'll  never  hear  his  voice  again. 
If  he'd  but  lived  .  .  . 
Yet  he  is  free  from  pain  now, 

And  will  not  thirst  nor  hunger  any  more. 

And  though,  if  no  help  comes, 

We  two  must  starve, 

The  hunger  will  no  longer  gnaw  our  hearts, 

Knowing  that  he's  beyond  the  clutch  of  hunger, 
Joan.     Aye,  we  must  starve,  it  seems, 

If  you  have  found  no  work ; 

Though  I  am  free  now  .   .  . 

Free  to  seek  for  work. 

He  does  not  need  me  now ; 

And  nevermore  will  need  me- 

Ah,  God,  I'm  free  .  .  . 

Free  ! 

Amos.     They  only  look  at  me, 


THE   CHILD 

And  shake  their  heads  ; 

Though  I  was  strong  once,  wife, 

And  I  could  work, 

When  there  was  work  to  get. 

But  times  are  bad, 

And  work  is  slack ; 

And  I  must  needs  sit  idle. 

While  he  was  dying — 

While  he  was  dying  for  the  want  of  food — 

The  hands  that  should  have  earned  his  bread  were  idle. 

I  gave  him  life, 

Yet  could  not  feed  the  life  that  I  had  given. 

Joan.     Aye,  Amos,  you  were  always  steady, 
And  ever  worked  well ; 
And  I,  too,  have  worked  ; 
And  yet  we've  not  a  penny  in  the  world, 
And  scarce  a  bite  to  eat. 

Reach  down  the  loaf 

And  cut  yourself  a  slice  ; 

You've  eaten  naught  all  day 
Amos.     And  you,  wife  ? 
Joan.     Nay,  I  cannot  eat  just  now. 

He  drank  the  milk, 

But  could  not  touch  the  bread ; 

He  was  too  ill  to  eat. 

Amos.     And  when  he  cried  to  me  for  bread, 

I  had  no  bread  to  give  him. 

Wife,  how  should  I  eat  bread 

When  I'd  no  bread  to  give  him  till  too  late? 

116 


THE  CHILD 

[They   sit  for  a   while  silent    on    an    upturned 
empty  orange-box  by  the  window.\ 
Joan.     Your  cough  is  worse  to-day. 
You've  eaten  naught, 
And  sit  so  still, 

Save  when  the  coughing  takes  you. 
Amos.     Wife,  I  was  thinking. 
Joan.     Thinking ! 
Nay,  lad,  don't  think ; 
It  is  not  good  to  think, 
At  times  like  these. 
I  dare  not — 
I,  who  bore  him, 
And  gave  him  suck. 

Amos.     Wife,  I  was  thinking  of  a  little  child. 
Joan.     Of  him  ? 
Amos.     Nay,  not  of  him, 
But  of  a  happy  child, 

Who  played  and  paddled  daylong  in  the  brook 
That  ran  before  his  father's  cottage. 
And,  as  I  thought, 

I  seemed  to  hear  the  pleasant  noise  of  waters — 
The  noise  that  once  was  in  my  ears  all  day, 
Though  then  I  never  heard  it, 
Or,  hearing,  did  not  heed. 
Yes,  I  was  thinking  of  a  happy  child — 
A  happy  child  .  .   . 
And  yet,  of  him ; 
For,  as  I  listened  to  the  sound, 

117 


THE   CHILD 

It  seemed  to  me  the  baby  that  we  loved 

No  longer  lay  upon  that  heap  of  rags, 

Lifeless  and  cold, 

Bat,  somewhere,  far  away, 

Beyond  this  cruel  city, 

Among  the  northern  hills, 

Played  happily  the  livelong  day, 

Paddling  and  splashing  in  the  brook  that  runs 

Before  a  cottage  door. 

O  wife,  do  you  not  hear  the  noise  of  water — 

Of  water,  running  in  and  out, 

And  in  and  out  among  the  stones, 

And  tumbling  over  boulders  ? 

He  does  not  hear  it, 

For  he's  far  too  happy. 

O  wife,  do  you  not  hear  the  noise  of  water — 

Of  water,  running,  running  .  .  . 

[The  room  slowly  darkens  as  they  sit,  hand  in 
hand,  gazing  at  the  sky  beyond  the  chimney- 
stacks ■.] 


118 


THE    NIGHT-SHIFT 

Persons  :  Jenny  Craster,  Robert  Crasto-s  wife. 

Tamar  Craster,  Robert  Craster  s  mother. 
Maggie  Thomson,  a  neighbour. 
Lizzie  Thomson,  her  daughter. 

Scene:  Robert  Craster's  cottage,  in  the  early  morning. 
Jenny  Craster  lies  in  bed,  her  new-born  baby  by  her 
side.  Her  eyes  are  closed,  and  she  seems  barely  con- 
scious. Tamar  Craster  stands  at  the  door  talking 
with  Maggie  Thomson, 

Tamar.     My  son  ! 
But,  hush  ! 
She  must  not  hear  ; 
'T would  be  the  death  of  her. 
'Twill  take  her  all  her  time,  poor  lass, 
To  pull  through  as  it  is. 
And,  if  she  heard,  her  husband  .  .  . 
But  it's  not  true  .   .  . 
Oh,  say  it  is  not  true  ! 

Maggie.     Aye,  Tamar,  it  is  true  enough ; 

119 


THE   NIGHT-SHIFT 

And  there's  but  little  hope 

That  any  man  will  leave  the  pit  alive. 

Tamar.     My  son  ! 
She  must  not  hear  a  whisper ; 
The  news  would  kill  her,  and  her  newborn  babe. 

Maggie.     Sooner  or  later, 
She  must  know,  poor  soul  ! 

Tamar.     Aye,  but  not  yet ; 
For  she's  in  need  of  sleep. 
When  there's  no  help, 
And  she  must  know, 
Then  'twill  be  time  enough 
To  break  the  news  to  her. 
Perhaps,  when  she  has  slept  a  bit, 
She  will  be  strong  to  bear  much 
That's  now  beyond  her  strength. 

Maggie.     Well,  I'm  away  ! 
My  man  has  gone  already 
To  see  if  there's  a  chance  of  doing  aught. 
Thank  God,  he's  on  the  day-shift  ! 
If  he'd  been  in  the  pit  .  .  . 
But  he  was  sleeping  soundly, 
Beside  me,  snug  in  bed, 
Until  the  rumbling  roused  us ; 
When  he  leapt  up  and  ran 
Nigh  naked  to  the  pit. 
I  had  to  stay  and  hush  the  children 
To  sleep  again  ; 
The  noise  had  startled  them. 

I20 


THE   NIGHT-SHIFT 

And  then  I  came  to  tell  you. 

There's  scarce  a  body  left 

In  all  the  village. 

The  cottages  were  empty, 

And  every  door  ajar, 

As  I  came  by  ; 

For  all  the  women-folk 

Have  run  to  the  pit-head. 

And  I  must  go  ; 

I  cannot  stay  behind, 

Not  knowing  what  is  happening. 

If  there  is  any  news, 

I'll  bring  you  word  ; 

Although  it's  feared 

There's  little  hope  of  rescue. 

\Shegoes  out,  dosing  the  door  behind  her.] 
Tamar.     Robert,  my  son  ! 
But  I  must  breathe  no  word, 
Lest  she  should  hear. 
She  must  not  know  my  son's  in  peril ; 
For  he's  her  husband. 

The  women-folk  are  gathered  round  the  shaft — 
Poor  wives  and  mothers, 
Waiting  and  watching, 
And  hoping  against  hope. 
Would  that  I,  too,  watched  with  them — 
A  mother  'mid  the  mothers — 
To  share  with  them  what  little  hope  there  may  be. 
But  I  must  bide  at  home, 

121 


THE   NIGHT-SHIFT 

Alone  with  her  I  dare  not  speak  to, 

Or  breathe  a  word  of  all  my  fears  to. 

Nay,  I  must  keep  them  to  myself, 

Even  though  my  heart  .  .  . 

My  son's  in  danger, 

Yet  I  dare  not  go  .  .  . 

No  longer  he  belongs  to  me  alone  • 

For  he's  her  husband  and  a  father  now  ; 

And  I  must  stay 

To  tend  his  wife  and  son. 

Jenny  (opening  her  eyes  and  speaking  in  a  whisper).     Is 
Robert  not  home  yet  ? 

Tamar.     Nay,  daughter  .  .  . 
He's  not  home  yet. 

Jenny.     What  time  is  it  ? 

Tamar.     It's  nearly  .  .  . 
Nay  .  .  . 

[S/ie  goes  to  the  clock  on  the  wall  and  holds 
the  pendulum  until  it  stops.] 
The  clock  has  stopt. 

Jenny.     I  thought  I  heard  it  ticking ; 
Though  now  I  cannot  hear  it. 
Still,  it  seems  almost  light ; 
And  he  should  not  be  long. 
How  pleased  he'll  be  to  have  a  boy  ! 
I  hope  that  they'll  not  tell  him, 
Before  he  reaches  home. 
I'd  like  to  see  his  face, 
When  first  he  learns 

122 


THE   NIGHT-SHIFT 

That  he's  the  father  of  a  son. 

He'll  soon  be  home  ...  be  home  .   .   . 

My  babe  ! 

He'll  be  so  pleased. 

I  hope  .  .  . 

That  they'll  not  tell  him  .   .  . 

Tamar.     Nay  .   .   .  they'll  not  tell  .   . 
But  you  must  not  talk  now, 
For  you're  too  weakly, 
And  should  save  yourself. 
Until  .  .  . 

Jenny.     Until  he  comes. 
Yes,  I'll  lie  very  quiet, 
And  save  myself  that  I  may  see  him, 
When  he  first  learns  .   .   . 
But  there's  a  sound  of  tapping  .   .  . 
Do  you  not  hear  it  ? 

Tamar.     Nay,  lass,  I  hear  nothing. 
Jenny.     I  thought  it  was  the  clock. 
Tamar.     The  clock  has  stopt. 
Jenny.     It  must  be  in  my  head  then  . 
It  keeps  on  tapping  .   .   .  tapping  .   .   . 
He'll  soon  be  home. 
But  I'm  so  tired, 
And  cannot  keep  awake. 
I'll  sleep  .  .  . 
Till  he  comes  home. 
And,  Tamar,  you'll  be  sure  to  waken  me 
The  moment  he  comes  home  ? 

12* 


THE   NIGHT-SHIFT 

You'll  not  forget  ? 

Tamar.     Nay,  lass,  I'll  not  forget. 

Jenny  (drowsily  sinking  back  into  unconsciousness). 
It  keeps  on  tapping  .   .  .  tapping  .  .  . 
Tap  .   .  .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .   .  .  tap  .  .  . 

Tamar.     Till  he  comes  home  .  .  . 
Ah,  God,  how  shall  I  tell  her  ! 
For  I  must  tell  her  soon ; 
I  cannot  keep  it  from  her  long. 
And  I,  his  mother, 
Must  be  the  first  to  tell  his  wife 
That  he  .  .  . 

But  he  may  come  yet  .  .   . 
And  she  must  know  naught  now. 
For  she's  too  weakly, 
And  'twould  kill  her  outright ; 
And,  after  all, 
He  may  come  home  again, 
Before  there's  any  need  to  tell  her  aught. 
When  there's  no  help, 
And  she  must  know, 
Then  'twill  be  soon  enough  .  .  . 
She'll  have  a  longer  spell  than  I 
To  bear  it  .  .  . 
She  is  young  ! 

And  I  ...  I  seem  quite  old, 
So  suddenly  ! 

She  said  she  heard  a  sound  of  tapping  .  .  . 
She  might  have  heard  my  heart  almost, 

124 


THE   NIGHT-SHIFT 

It  beat  so  loudly  at  my  side 

While  she  was  speaking  of  my  son, 

Her  husband, 

And  wondering,  poor  soul  .  .   . 

But,  may  he  not  come  safe  home  after  all  ? 

She  may  speak  truly,  when  she  says 

He'll  soon  be  home. 

And  yet  .  .  . 

She  heard  a  sound  of  tapping  .   .   . 

While  I  heard  nothing — 

Nothing  save  my  heart 

My  old  heart  dinning  in  my  ears. 

Jenny   (sitting  up   suddenly   in    bed  and  gazing   info 
vacancy).     Hark  ! 
There  it  is  again  .  .  . 
A  sound  of  tapping  .  .  . 
I  hear  it  tapping,  tapping  .  .   . 
Like  a  pick  .   .  . 
Tap  .   .  .  tap  .  .   .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  . 

Tamar.     A  pick  .  .  . 
Ah,  God  ! 

Nay,  daughter ;  there  is  nothing. 
You  must  lie  quiet  now, 
Or  you  .  .  . 

Jenny.     Tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  . 
It  goes  on  tapping,  tapping, 
In  the  dark  .   .   . 
It's  dark  ...  so  dark ; 
And  I  can  scarcely  breathe, 

125 


THE    NIGHT-SHIFT 

The  darkness  lies  so  heavily  upon  me, 

As  though  I  wandered  somewhere  underground, 

With  all  the  earth  above  me, 

With  great  rocks  hanging  overhead, 

So  close  that  my  hair  brushes  them, 

Although  I  cannot  see  them : 

And  I  can  touch  them  with  my  hand  .  .  . 

Oh,  they  are  falling,  falling  .  .  . 

I've  pulled  them  down  on  me  .  .  . 

The  great  black  rocks  .  .   . 

[She  sinks  back  exhausted^ 

Tamar.     Nay,  lass,  you're  lying  in  your  bed, 
Your  own  warm  bed, 
Beside  your  little  son. 

Jenny  {drowsily).     My  little  son  ! 
When  he  comes  home 
He'll  be  so  pleased  .  .  . 
But  still  I  hear  a  sound 
Of  tapping  .   .  . 
Tap  ...  tap  ...  tap  ...  tap  ..  . 

[S/ie  dozes  ovcr.~\ 

Tamar.     My  son  ! 
Nay,  there's  no  hope, 
For  she  hears  something  .  .  . 
Something  that  I  cannot. 
The  wife's  heart  hears 
What  the  old  mother's  may  not, 
Because  it  beats  too  loudly. 

[She  sits  for  a  while  gazing  into  the  Jire.] 
126 


THE    NIGHT-SHIFT 

Jenny  {sitting  up  again  suddenly).     Will  no  one  stop 
that  tapping  ? 
I  cannot  sleep  for  it. 

I  think  that  some  one  is  shut  in  somewhere, 
And  trying  to  get  out. 
Will  no  one  let  them  out, 
And  stop  the  tapping  ? 
It  keeps  on  tapping,  tapping  .  .  . 
Tap  .  .   .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .   .  tap  .  .   . 
And  I  can  scarcely  breathe, 
The  darkness  is  so  thick. 
It  stifles  me, 

And  weighs  so  heavily  upon  me, 
And  drips,  and  drips  .  .  . 
My  hair  is  wet  already  • 
There's  water  all  about  my  knees. 
I  cannot  see  it, 
But  I  feel  it  creeping, 
Higher  and  higher, 
Cold  as  death,  about  me  : 
I  cannot  see  it, 
But  I  hear  it  swishing 
At  every  step, 
And  feel  it  dripping  cold — 
The  darkness  dripping  down  upon  me, 
So  cold,  so  cold. 

And  yet  ...  I  cannot  breathe  .   .  . 
The  darkness  is  so  thick,  so  hot : 
It's  like  a  furnace-blast 

127 


THE    NIGHT-SHIFT 

Upon  my  brow ; 

And  weighs  so  heavily, 

As  though  great  rocks  were  hanging  overhead  ! 

And  dripping,  dripping  .  .  . 

I  cannot  lift  my  feet, 

The  water  holds  them, 

It's  creeping  .  .  .  creeping  .   .  .  creeping  .   .  . 

My  wet  hair  drags  me  down. 

Ah,  God  ! 

Will  no  one  stop  that  tapping  .  .  . 

I  cannot  sleep  .  .  . 

And  I  would  sleep 

Till  he  comes  home  .  .  . 

Tap  .  .   .  tap  .   .  .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  . 

[Sinks  back  exhausted.'] 

Tamar.     O    God,  have    mercy  on    her  .   .  .  and    on 
me  ! 
She  hears, 
And  yet, 

She  knows  not  what  she  hears. 
But  I, 

Though  I  hear  nothing, 
I  know  all. 
Robert,  my  son  ! 

Jenny  {starting  up  agai?i).     I  cannot  breathe  .  .  . 
The  darkness  is  so  thick — 
So  thick  and  hot, 
It  stifles  me  .  .  . 
Ah,  God  !     Ah,  God  ! 

128 


THE  NIGHT-SHIFT 

The  darkness  is  ablaze. 
The  rocks  are  falling,  falling  .   .   . 
The  great,  black,  dripping  rocks  .  .  . 
And  I  am  falling  .   .   . 

[A  pause.  | 
And  there's  some  one  tapping, 
As  though  they  would  be  in. 
Why  don't  you  let  him  in  ? 
It  is  my  husband  ; 
He  would  see  his  son — 
His  firstborn  son. 

Can  you  not  hear  a  tapping,  tapping  ? 
It's  like  the  tapping  of  a  pick  .   . 
Tap  .  .   .  tap  .  .  . 
But  it  grows  fainter  : 
Now  I  cannot  hear  it. 
The  darkness  has  come  down  on  me. 
I  sink  ...  I  sink  .  .   . 

\She  lies  back  exhausted^ 
Tamar.     She  does  not  hear  it  now. 
And  now  ...  it  almost  seems 
As  if  .  .  .  my  heart  had  stopt  .   .   . 
I  cannot  breathe  .  .   . 
But  she  is  sleeping  soundly, 
And  sleep  will  give  her  strength. 
She's  scarcely  slept, 
Since  he  was  born — 
The  poor  wee  babe  ! — 
And  he  is  sleeping  too. 

129  K 


THE   NIGHT-SHIFT 

I  would  that  I  were  in  as  deep  a  slumber, 

For  I  am  weary  .   .  . 

Yet,  how  could  I  sleep  ? 

They  sleep, 

Because  they  do  not  know, 

But  I  ...  I  know. 

Robert,  my  son  ! 

[S//e  sits  gazing  into  the  fire.     After  a   while 
Jenny  wakens  and  looks  about  her.] 

Jenny.     My  little  son, 
Your  father  '11  soon  be  home. 
He'll  be  so  pleased  .  .  . 
But  he  should  be  home  now, 
.For  it  is  light. 
Has  Robert  not  come  home  yet  ? 

Tamar.     Not  .  .  .  yet  .  .  . 

Jenny.     What  time  .  .  . 

Tamar.     The  clock  has  stopt. 

Jenny.     I  wonder  what  can  keep  him. 
It  is  light  .  .  . 

Tamar.     Nay,  woman,  it's  not  light  yet. 
It's  dark  .   .  .  quite  dark  .   .  . 
You're  weakly  still ; 
And  you've  been  wandering  ; 
And  now  you're  talking  foolishness. 
You  must  not  speak  ; 
But  go  to  sleep  again, 
And  waken  well  and  strong. 

Jenny.     It  seems  quite  light  .  .  . 

130 


THE   NIGHT-SHIFT 

Tamar.     Nay  ...  it  is  dark  .  .  .  God  knows  ! 
Jenny      {drowsily).     I    think    that    I    could     sleep 
again — 
Sleep  .  .   .  till  he  comes. 

\Shc  sinks  into  a  deeper  slumber.     Tamar  sits 
for  a  while,  gazing  into  the  fire  with  vacant 
eyes.     Suddenly  she  speaks,  her  voice  little 
more  than  a  whisper,  and  tries  to  rise,  but 
falls  forward  on  to  the  hearthrug,  and  lies 
motionless?^ 
Tamar.     It's  dark  .  .  .  quite  dark  .  .  . 
Robert  .  .  .  my  son  ! 

[Time  passes;  presently  a  sound  of  voices  is 
heard  without ;  the  door  opens  quietly,  and 
Maggie  Thomson  enters,  followed  by  her 
daughter,  Lizzie.] 
Maggie.     Tamar  .  .  .  where  are  you  ? 
Quick,  lass,  .   .  .  she's  fallen  ! 
She  must  have  fainted  .  .  . 
The  shock  .  .  . 

[They   turn    Tamar's  face  to  the  light  and 
loosen  her  bodice.^ 

0  God! 

She  does  not  breathe  ; 
Her  heart  has  failed  her. 
And  I— 

1  left  her  here  alone  .   .  . 
His  mother  .   .  . 

Lizzie.     The  clock  has  stopt. 


131 


K    2 


THE    NIGHT-SHIFT 

Maggie.     Look  to  the  wife  .  .  . 
She  may  .   .  . 

Lizzie.     She's  sleeping  quietly. 

Maggie.     Poor  Jennie  ! 
And  her  babe  is  fatherless. 

Lizzie.     He's  snuggled  to  her  breast, 
And  sleeping  soundly. 
A  fine  big  boy  he  is. 


!32 


AGATHA    STEEL 

Persons:  Zillah  Paxton. 

Agatha  Steel,  her  daughter. 

Scene:  A  room  in  tenements.     It  is  evening;  crnd  Zillah 
Paxtox,    an    elderly  woman,  sits  by  the  fire,   with 
folded   hands ;    when  the  door  opens  and   Agatha 
Steel  enters. 

Zillah.     You,  Agatha  ! 
You  startled  me  .  .  . 
I  heard  the  staircase  creaking  ; 
But,  little  dreamt  'twas  your  foot. 
I  never  thought  to  look  on  you  again. 
Since  you  and  Jim  went  off,  so  suddenly, 
Without  a  word,  and  only  newly  wedded, 
It  seemed  I'd  heard  the  last  of  you. 
You  went  without  a  word  to  me — 
Without  a  word  to  me,  your  mother  ! 
And  you've  not  written  me  a  line — 
A  single  line  in  all  these  years — 
Three  years,  at  least  : 
And  I,  for  all  you  cared, 
I  migrht  have  been  both  dead  and  buried 

133 


AGATHA   STEEL 

And  you  say  nothing  now  ! 

Have  you  no  tongue  at  all  ? 

I'm  glad  to  see  your  face,  although  it  looks  .  . 

But  you — you  must  be  ailing,  daughter, 

To  look  like  that ! 

Have  you  come  back  to  me,  because  you're  ailing, 

Come  back  to  me  .  .  . 

Speak,  woman  ! 

Agatha.     Nay  .  .  .  I'm  well  enough. 

Zillah.     Well  ?     Nay,  you're  ailing,  Agatha. 
A  mother's  eye  is  quick  .  .  . 
But,  where  is  Jim  ? 
Is  he  not  with  you,  lass  ? 

Agatha.     I  don't  know  where  he  is. 

Zillah.     You  don't  know  where  ! 
He  has  not  left  you,  daughter  ? 

Agatha.     He's  left  me  for  another  woman. 

Zillah.     A  curse  .  .  . 

Agatha.     Nay  !  you've  no  right  to  curse  him. 

Zillah.  Right  !  I've  no  right  to  curse  the  man 
Who  leaves  my  daughter,  his  own  wedded  wife  .  .  . 
Have  I,  your  mother  .  .  . 

Agatha.     You've  no  right : 
For  you,  my  mother,  let  me  wed  him. 

Zillah.    I  let  you  !    Why,  what  else  was  there  to  do? 
The  thing  was  past  my  mending, 
Before  I  even  heard  of  it. 

Agatha.     You  know  that  is  not  true. 
I  married  him  for  your  sake  : 

T34 


AGATHA   STEEL 

You  drove  me  to  it, 

Though  you  knew  I  loathed  him. 

Zillah.     For  my  sake  !     I — I  drove  you  ! 
So  I'm  to  bear  the  blame  of  your  ill-doing, 
Because  I  tried  to  do  the  best  for  you, 
And  save  you  from  the  gutter  ! 

Agatha.     The  best  for  me  .  .  .  the  best  ! 
To  make  me  wed  the  man  I  hated  ! 

Zillah.     You  did  not  always  hate  him. 

Agatha.     True  .  .  .  yet,  I  think, 
I  never  really  loved  him. 

Zillah.     More  shame  to  you  ! 

Agatha.     Perhaps,  and  still, 
Even  I  would  not  have  married  him. 
But  you — you  knew  him, 
And  you  let  me  wed  him, 
Though  I  was  your  own  daughter,  just  a  child. 
Yea,  I  was  young,  God  knows  ! 
But  he  .  .  . 

He  always  had  a  way  with  him  : 
And  I  was  in  his  arms,  before  I  knew. 
And  then  .  .  . 
I  loathed  him,  loathed  him  ! 
And  you  .  .  .  you  knew  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  . 

Zillah.     What  else  was  left  ? 
Would  you  have  had  .  .  . 

Agatha.  Aye  !  anything  save  this. 
But  you  .  .  .  you  cannot  understand. 
You  have  not  changed,  while  I  .  .  . 

*35 


AGATHA    STEEL 

Zillah.     Changed,  Agatha  ? 

Agatha.     And  yet,  how  should  you  change  ? 
You've  not  gone  through  what  I  have. 
Still,  it  is  strange  to  think  three  years 
Should  make  no  difference,  when,  to  me  .  .  . 
But  you  .   .  .  you  speak,  as  you  spoke  then — 
Then,  when  you  scolded  me,  and  said, 
The  Beals  had  always  been  respectable  : 
And  so,  I  married  him  : 
And  I  have  been  respectable : 
And  clung  unto  the  man  who  hated  me, 
Until  he  shook  me  off. 

Zillah.     But  you're  his  wife  .  .  . 

Agatha.     Oh,  mother,  will  you  never  understand 
Yes,  I'm  his  wife,  his  wedded  wife  : 
And  I've  been  faithful  to  him, 
Been  faithful  to  the  husband  that  I  hated, 
Though  he  was  ever  faithless. 
Yes,  mother,  I,  your  daughter, 
Have  been  respectable. 
I've  not  disgraced  you,  mother. 

Zillah.     Ah,  lass,  you're  bitter ; 
But,  it's  little  wonder, 
Since  you're  forsaken. 
Jim  was  always  wild  .  .  . 

Agatha.     Wild  ! 

Zillah.     From  a  boy  .  .  * 
And  still,  I  never  thought  .   .  . 
A  curse  .  .  . 

136 


AGATHA   STEEL 

Agatha.     Nay  1  bless  him,  rather, 
That  he,  at  least,  has  left  me, 

Zillah.     Aye  !  maybe,  you're  well  rid  of  him, 
If  he's  been  cruel  .  .  . 

Agatha.     Cruel,  woman  ! 
You  know  that  he  was  drunk,  the  night  we  married. 
He's  scarce  been  sober,  since. 
And,  when  a  man's  in  drink  .   .   . 
But,  that's  past  now  : 
We'll  talk  no  more  about  it. 
A  blow  is  neither  here  nor  there, 
If  only  you're  respectable  ! 

Zillah.     But,  how've  you  lived  these  years  ? 

Agatha.     God  knows  ! 
He  never  did  a  stroke  of  work ; 
But,  lived  upon  the  little  I  could  earn. 
We've  travelled  all  the  countryside  : 
For,  when  I'd  worked  my  fingers  to  the  bone, 
To  get  a  home  together, 
He'd  always  break  it  up ; 
And  drag  me  out  again, 
To  trail  behind  him  to  another  town. 

Zillah.     You've  had  no  children,  daughter  ? 

Agatha.     Children  ...  ah.  God  ! 

Zillah.     Dead,  Agatha  ! 
Perhaps,  it's  well  .   .  . 

Agatha.     It's  well  that  I  should  bear  three  stillborn 
babies  ! 

Zillah.     Stillborn  !     Ah,  daughter  ! 

137 


AGATHA   STEEL 

Agatha.     If  only  one  had  lived  .  .  . 
But  he  ...  he  killed  them  .  .  . 
Aye !     I'm  bitter. 

Zillah.     You've  cause  enough  :  he's  used  you  cruelly. 
Three  stillborn  babes  ! 

Agatha.     Mother,  you  understand  ! 

Zillah.     Aye,  Agatha  ! 
My  first  was  stillborn  .  .  . 

Agatha.     I  never  knew. 

Zillah.     And  yet,  your  father,  lass, 
Was  always  good  to  me. 
Aye  !  he  was  ever  kind  .  .  . 
But,  Jim  has  used  you  cruelly. 

Agatha  (rising).     Well  .  .  .  now,  it's  over  ! 
And  I  have  some  hope  .  .  . 
But,  I  must  not  stay  talking  here. 
It's  time  .  .  . 

Zillah.     You  would  not  go  again  ? 
Where  can  you  go  ? 
You'll  live  here,  surely,  now  ? 

Agatha.     Nay  !  anywhere  but  here. 
He'll  likely  weary  of  his  mistress — ■ 
Poor  soul,  I  pity  her  ! 
And  seek  again  his  wife  to  keep  him  ? 
He'd  come  here,  first  .  .  . 
What  startles  you  ? 

Zillah.     I  thought  I  heard  a  step. 

Agatha.     Oh  !  I've  no  fear  he'll  come  yet ; 
She's  young,  and  strong  .  .  . 

138 


AGATHA   STEEL 

Zillah.     I  did  not  think  'twas  Jim, 
But  Richard. 

Agatha.     Richard  ?     Who  ? 

Zillah.     Yes,  Agatha,  you've  given  me  no  chance 
To  tell  you  that  I'd  wed  again. 

Agatha.     You  .   .   .  married  ! 

Zillah.     Aye,  a  year  ago, 
To  Richard  Paxton. 

Agatha.     Mother  !  not  to  him  ! 

Zillah.     Why  not  .  .  . 

Agatha.     You've  married  him  .  .  . 
And  yet,  you  knew  that  he  was  never  steady  ! 

Zillah.     Well,  life's  a  lonely  thing  without  a  man  : 
And,  you  had  left  me,  daughter  : 
You  left,  without  a  word  :  and  never  wrote  : 
You  didn't  care,  though  I  was  dead,  and  buried. 
WTiy  should  you  mind  .   .   . 
And  there's  small  blame  to  them 
Who  drink  too  much,  at  whiles. 
There's  little  else  the  poor  can  get  too  much  of: 
And  life,  at  best,  is  dull  enough,  God  knows. 
Sometimes,  it's  better  to  forget  .   .  . 
And  .  .   .  it's  a  lovely  dizziness. 

Agatha.     You  !     Mother ! 

Zillah.     Aye  !  you'll  blame  me. 
But,  Richard  is  not  always  kind  .  .  . 

Agatha.     Nay,  mother,  I  don't  blame  you  : 
It's  better  to  forget. 
Forgive  me  if  I  spoke  too  harshly  : 

139 


AGATHA    STEEL 

I  am  not  bitter,  now. 
But  I  must  go. 

Zillah.     Where  will  you  go  ? 

Agatha.     I  cannot  tell — but,  far  away  from  here 
That  I,  too,  may  forget  .  .   . 
Yes ;  even  I  ! 
Since  I  am  free  ; 
And  there  is  hope  within  me 
That  I  may  bear  a  living  child. 


340 


MATES 

Persons-.  Martin  Aynsley,  a  pitman. 

Charlotte  Aynsley,  his  mother. 
Grace  Hardy,  his  betrothed. 

Scene :  Charlotte  Aynsley's  cottage.  Charlotte 
Aynsley,  and  Grace  Hardy,  stand  by  the  Jirc, 
talking  together. 

Charlotte.     Nay,  lass  !  I  cannot  turn  him  ; 
He  pays  no  heed  to  me  : 
He'll  have  his  will,  for  all  that  I  can  say. 
He's  just  his  father  over. 

Grace.     But,  have  you  said  .  .  . 

Charlotte.     Said  !     Have  I  not  said  all  to  him 
A  mother's  heart  can  say — 
A  heart  left  mateless, 
And  with  one  son  left  .   .   . 
How  could  I  leave  a  single  word  unspoken, 
To  save  the  only  son  that's  left  me — 
To  save  him  from  the  death 
That  overtook  his  father  and  his  brothers, 


That  night  .  .  . 


141 


MATES 

When  I  .  .  . 

I  slumbered  soundly ; 

And  never  dreamt  of  danger, 

While  they,  my  husband  and  my  sons  .  .  .. 

And  Martin— 

Though  'twas  only  by  a  hair's  breadth 

That  he  himself  escaped, 

And  came  to  me  again — 

Yet,  he'll  not  leave  the  pit, 

For  all  my  pleading, 

Perhaps  if  you  .  .  . 

Grace.     Nay  !  but  I've  talked,  and  talked,  with  him  ; 
And  he  would  answer  nothing. 
I  could  not  win  a  word  from  him, 
Will  you  not  try  again  ? 

Charlotte.     Try,  daughter,  try  ! 
What  is  there  left  to  try  ? 
How  could  I  leave  a  stone  unturned  ! 
Do  I  not  lie  awake  the  livelong  night, 
To  think  of  ways  and  means 
To  keep  him  from  the  pit  ? 
I've  scarcely  slept  a  wink  since  .    .  . 
Since  that  night — 
That  night  I  slept  so  soundly  .   .   . 

(pause.) 
It  seems  as  though  he  could  not  break  with  it — 
The  pit  that  all  h;s  folk  have  worked  in. 
It's  said,  his  father's  grandfather 
Was  born  at  the  pit-bottom — 

142 


MATES 

Aye,  daughter  !  born  and  died  there  : 
For,  two  days  after  he  was  married, 
They  found  him,  crushed  beneath  a  rock, 
Dead,  in  the  very  shaft — 
The  very  shaft  in  which  his  mother  bore  him  : 
For  womenfolk  worked  in  the  pits  in  those  days, 
Young  girls,  and  mothers  near  their  time, 
And  little  children,  naked  .   .   . 

Grace.     But  is  there  nothing  else  that  Martin 
Would  care  to  try  his  hand  at  ? 

Charlotte.     Have  I  not  offered,  lass, 
To  set  him  up  in  any  trade  he  fancies  ? 
This  very  morn,  when  he  came  in, 
I  said  I'd  buy  a  horse  and  cart, 
With  stock-in-trade  for  him  to  hawk  : 
For  hawking's  scarce  a  job 
That  needs  a  man  brought  up  to  it. 
At  least,  I  thought  that  he  .    .   . 

Grace.     What  did  he  say  ? 

Charlotte.     He  only  laughed  at  first ; 
But,  when  I  pressed  him,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
You  know  the  way  he  has  with  him, 
And  looked  me  straight  betwixt  the  eyes — 
Looked  at  me  with  his  father's  eyes — 
And  then  he  said  : 
"  Nay,  mother  !  I'm  a  pitman  : 
And  I  must  take  my  chance  among  my  mates/' 
He's  just  his  father  over  .    .   . 

Grace.     That  was  all  ? 

i43 


MATES 

Charlotte.     All,  daughter  !     Was  it  not  enough  ? 
There's  nothing  more  to  say. 
He  will  not  leave  the  pit, 
Although  his  father,  and  his  brothers  .   .   . 
And  he,  himself  .   .   . 
I  never  shall  sleep  soundly  any  more — 
Though  sound  I  slept  that  night, 
While  they  were  dying  .   .   .  I  .    .   . 

Grace.     I'll  speak  with  him  again. 
Perhaps  .   .   . 

Charlotte.     Aye,  lass  :  he'll  listen  unto  you, 
If  he'll  pay  heed  to  anyone. 

Grace.     Oh,  Charlotte,  do  you  think  that  I  .   .   . 
When  you,  his  mother  .   .   . 
Do  you  think  he  cares  .   .   . 
He  cares  so  much  for  me  ? 
If  I  could  only  turn  him  ! 
And  yet.  if  he'll  not  heed  .   .   . 

Charlotte.     It  seems,  I've  lost  my  hold  : 
He's  broken  from  my  apron-strings, 
It's  your  turn  now  ; 

And  you  must  try  your  strength  with  him. 
He's  stubborn  ;  but  he's  fond  of  you ; 
And  when  his  heart  is  set  on  anything, 
He's  just  his  father  over. 
When  Stephen  first  walked  out  with  me, 
His  mother  bade  .  .  . 
But  Martin's  stirring  ; 
I  must  get  his  bait. 

144 


MATES 

Aye  !  even  while  we  talk  of  him,  he's  dressing 
To  go  upon  the  night-shift. 
Talk  I  Talk  ! 

Grace.     Yet,  I  must  try  to  save  him. 
If  I  could  only  turn  .   .   . 

Charlotte.     Pray  God,  you  may  ! 
There's  still  a  chance  ; 
Though  I  .  .  . 
It's  your  turn  now. 
I'm  only  Martin's  mother ; 
But,  you  .   .  . 

When  Stephen  wooed  me,  I  was  more  to  him 
And  you'll  be  more  to  Martin  .   .  . 
How  he  whistles  ! 
His  heart,  at  least,  is  light  enough. 
And,  in  a  moment  he'll  be  out. 
I'll  leave  you  here  to  wait  for  him, 
And  speak  with  him,  alone ; 
And  if  he  asks  for  me, 
Say  that  I'm  seeking  coals — 
Coals  !  seeking  coals  ! 
God  knows  their  cost  .  .  . 
Sometimes  I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  fire, 
And  think  of  all  the  burning  lives  .  .  . 
He'll  soon  be  out. 
His  bait  is  on  the  table  ; 
Though  I'll  be  back  before  he  leaves. 

Grace.     Nay,  do  not  go. 
What  can  I  say  to  him  ! 

145 


MATES 

Charlotte.     Your  heart  will  tell  you,  if  you  love  .  .  . 
But,  here  he  comes. 

[She  picks  up  the  scuttle  and  shovel  and  goes  out. 
Martin  Aynsley  enters  from  the  inner 
room.] 

Martin.     Mother,  this  button  .  .  . 
You  here,  lass  ! 

I  thought  I  heard  my  mother's  voice, 
But  did  not  know  who  talked  with  her. 
Has  she  gone  out  ? 
I  wanted  .  .  . 

Grace.     Come,  lad,  I'll  sew  the  button  on. 

Martin.     You,  Grace  ! 
Well,  you've  got  nimble  fingers. 
But,  mother,  lass  .  .  . 

Grace.     She'll  not  be  long. 
Come  nearer  to  the  window. 
Nay,  but  you  must  stand  quietly, 
Or  you'll  be  pricked,  in  no  time. 

Martin.     Nay,  then,  I'd  best  be  quiet, 
For  I  shall  often  want  you  .  .   . 
I  play  the  deuce  with  buttons. 
You're  not  afraid,  lass,  when  you  think  of  all  .  .  . 

Grace.     Nay,  I'll  not  mind  the  buttons  ; 
They'll  be  the  least  .  .  . 

Martin.     The  least? 

Grace.     If  wives  had  nought  to  do  for  men, 
But  sew  on  buttons, 
They  would  thank  their  stars. 

146 


MATES 

But,  maybe,  someone  else  than  I 
Will  sew  yours  on  for  you. 

Martin.     Why,  Grace,  who  else  ? 

Grace.     Who  knows  ! 
The  chance  is,  you'll  go  buttonless, 
For  any  stitch  that  I  .  .  . 

Martin.     What  ails  you,  lass  ? 
You  would  not  have  your  husband  .   .  . 

Grace.     My  husband  !     Nay ;  I'll  tend  my  husband  : 
'Twas  you  that  I  was  speaking  of. 

Martin.     Well  :  I  don't  understand  you  : 
But  if  you  keep  your  husband's  buttons  on, 
Then  I'll  go  snug  and  decent. 

Grace.     Lad,  don't  you  be  too  sure. 

Martin.     Too  sure  !     Why,  Grace  ! 
But  you,  you  cannot  help  yourself. 
I've  set  my  heart  upon  you  : 
And  mother  says  I'm  stubborn. 

Grace.     And  if  I'm  stubborn,  too  ? 

Martin.     You,  Grace  !  But  you  don't  know  me  ! 

Grace.   And,  are  you  sure  you've  naught  to  learn  of  me  ? 

Martin.     I'm  sure  you're  mine,  beyond  all  help. 
You're  true  to  me  .  .   . 

Grace.     God  knows,  I'm  true  .  .  . 
But  still  .  .  .  it's  not  too  late  .  .   . 

Martin.     Come,  woman  !  no  more  foolishness, 
You  re  stitched  to  me  as  firmly  as  this  button 
That  you've  sewn  on  so  strongly. 

Grace.     As  firmly  !  yes  :  I  sewed  it  on  : 

147  l  2 


MATES 

But  I  can  snip  it  off  with  much  less  labour. 
Martin.     Not  if  I  hold  the  scissors  ! 

[Snatches  them  up?\ 

Nay  !  you  may  tug,  and  tug  : 

Your  work  will  stand  it  easily  : 

'Twill  not  give  way,  though  you  should  tug  my  shirt  off. 

Your  work's  too  good  :  and  you  are  mine,  as  surely  .  .  . 

But,  lass,  enough  of  this. 

If  I  had  only  known  that  you  were  here, 

I  would  .  .  .  yet,  you  and  she — 

You  seemed  to  have  enough  to  talk  of, 

Without  me  .  .  . 

Grace.     Aye  !  we'd  much  to  talk  of. 

Martin.     When  only  half  awake,  I  heard  you  at  it ; 
And  lay,  and  wondered  what  'twas  all  about. 
You  womenfolk  must  always  chatter,  chatter  : 
You've  got  such  restless  tongues. 

Grace.    And  yet,  it  is  the  men  that  keep  them  wagging. 

Martin.     The  men  ? 

Grace.     Foolhardy,  heedless  men, 
That  don't  care  how  they  break  the  women's  peace. 

Martin.     Ah,    now,    I   understand  !      There's   more 
than  buttons  ! 
I've  little  need  to  ask  what  kept  you  talking. 
You've  put  your  heads  together  :  but,  it's  useless. 
I  cannot  leave  the  pit,  though  you  should  talk  till  doomsday: 
So  let  no  more  be  said. 

Grace.     For  my  sake,  Martin  ! 

Martin,     Your  sake,  Grace? 

148 


MATES 

There's  little  I'd  not  do  for  you,  you  know,  lass,  but  not  this. 

You  would  not  have  me  cowardly,  for  your  sake  ? 

How  should  I  face  my  mates,  if  I  forsook  them  ? 

You  would  not  have  me  spend  my  days, 

A  cur,  with  tail  betwixt  his  legs, 

And  slinking  round  the  nearest  corner, 

Whenever  my  old  mates  went  by 

To  take  their  usual  shift  ? 

Nay  ;  I  will  hold  my  head  up, 

A  man,  among  the  men, 

For  your  sake — aye  !  for  your  sake  ! 

Grace.     And  who  would  dare  to  call  you  coward — 
Who,  knowing  all  you've  been  through  ? 

Martin.     There's   one  who   knows  what   I've   been 
through, 
Who'd  call  me  coward. 
Grace.     Who,  lad  ? 
Martin.     Can  you  ask  ? 
One,  Martin  Aynsley. 

Grace.     Aye  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  . 
If  you  care  naught  for  me, 
Think  of  your  mother,  Martin. 
You  know  she's  lost  her  husband, 
And  all  her  sons  but  you  ; 
And  cannot  rest,  while  you  are  in  the  pit. 

Martin.     You  know  I  care  for  you  ;  and  think  of  her  ; 
And  yet,  I'm  sure  of  one  thing, 
Though  you  may  little;  think  it  now, 
If  I  forsook  the  pit, 

149 


MATES 

The  time  would  surely  come 

When  you  would  both  despise  me  in  your  hearts. 

Grace.     Nay,  Martin  ! 

Martin.     Grace,  I  know  : 
It's  sure  as  death. 
I  cannot  leave  the  pit. 
My  father  died, 
And  I  will  die,  a  pitman. 
You  wouldn't  have  me  throw  up  work 
That  I  was  born  and  bred  to : 
You  surely  wouldn't  have  me 
Throw  over  all  my  mates — 
The  lads  I  went  to  school  with, 
That  I've  grown  up  with, 
Played  and  worked  with, 
And  had  such  larks  .  .  . 
There's  not  too  many  of  them  left  now  .  . 
But  all  there  are  went  through  that  night  with  me 
Before  that  night, 
Perhaps,  I  might  have  left  them  ; 
But  now,  how  could  I  ! 
Nay,  I'll  take  my  chance. 

Grace.     Then  someone  else  must  sew  .  . 

Martin.     Hark ! 

Grace.     What  d'you  hear  ?• 

Martin.     I  thought  I  heard  him  whistling. 

Grace.     Who,  lad  ? 

Martin.     I  thought  'twas  Nicholas,  my  mate  : 
But  that  was  not  his  whistle. 


MATES 

He  always  whistles  for  me, 
Every  night  at  Jackson's  Corner  ; 
And  we  go  to  work  together. 

Grace.     Aye  !  he'd  whistle  you  to  death 
And  you  .  .  .  you'd  follow  .  .  . 

Martin.     Shame  upon  you,  lass  ! 
How  can  you  talk  like  that ! 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
That,  but  for  him,  I'd  be  a  dead  man  now. 
'Twas  he  alone  who  dragged  me — 
Who  dragged  me  from  the  death 
That  overtook  my  father  and  my  brothers. 
Grace,  he  did  not  forsake  me  : 
Shall  I  desert  him  now? 
He  sought  me,  at  the  first  alarm, 
And  we  two  fled  together, 
Before  the  creeping  choke-damp, 
Until  it  gained  upon  us ; 
And  I  was  overcome  ; 
And  dropped,  to  die  : 
When  Nicholas  picked  me  up, 
And  bore  me  in  his  arms, 
Along  the  stifling  galleries — 
Stumbling  over  dead  and  dying 
Every  step  he  staggered. 
Though  he  could  scarcely  struggle 
Against  the  damp  himself, 
He  bore  me  into  safety  ; 
And  kept  the  spark  of  life  in  me, 

I51 


MATES 

Till  we,  at  last  were  rescued. 

Grace.     And  yet,  you'd  go  through  that  again  ? 

Martin.     If  need  be,  lass,  with  Nicholas. 

Grace.     You  love  him  more  than  me. 

Martin.     Nay,  Grace  !  you  know  .  .  . 

Grace.     Yet  you'll  not  even  leave  the  pit  for  my  sake3 
While  you  would  go  to  death  for  his. 

Martin.     I'd  go  to  death  for  him  ; 
But  I'd  not  be  a  coward 
For  your  sake,  even,  Grace. 

Grace.     Then  you  must  choose  between  us. 

Martin.     Grace  ! 

Grace.     Aye  !  you  must  choose,  and  now  ! 
I  cannot  lead  your  mother's  life, 
Or  my  own  mother's,  either. 
You  know  that  in  the  dead  of  night 
My  father  and  my  brothers 
Were  lost  with  yours  .  .  .  and  I  .  .  . 
Who  saw  them  brought  in,  one  by  one, 
And  laid  upon  their  beds, 
With  faces  covered  .  .  . 
How  could  I  ever  rest  at  all, 
With  that  remembrance  in  my  heart, 
While  you  were  in  the  pit — 
With  dread  forever  on  me, 
That  you,  too,  would  be  brought, 
And  laid,  a  broken  bundle,  at  my  feet, 
Or  never  come  at  all  to  me  again  ? 
How  could  I  live, 

1^2 


MATES 

With  ears  for  ever  listening  for  the  rumble 

Of  fresh  disaster  ? 

With  eyes  for  ever  wide  with  dread  to  see 

The  flames  leap  up  the  shaft  ? 

How  could  I  sleep  ...         [A  shrill  whistling  is  heard.'] 

He  whistles  you — your  mate  ! 

And  who  am  I  to  keep  you  ? 

Forsake  me  now  for  him  .   .   . 

And  I  .  .  .  and  I  .  .  . 

Martin.     Grace  ! 

Grace.     Nay,  Martin  !  you  must  choose  .  .  . 
He  whistles  louder  .   .  . 
He's  impatient  .  .  . 
Hark  ! 
Now  you  must  choose  between  us. 

Martin.     The  choice  is  made,  lass  ■ 
I  choose  him — and  you  ! 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms,  snatches  a  kiss, 
and  goes  out.'] 

Grace  (gazing  after  him).     The  choice  is  made  .  .  . 
He  knows  I  cannot  break  with  him. 
And  I  must  sew  .   .   .  (calling  after  him). 
You've  gone  without  your  bait  ! 

Martin  !  [She  picks  up  the  basket  and  can,  and 

runs  out  after  him.] 


i  ;; 


THE    OPERATION 

Persons  ;  William  Lowry,  a  printer. 
Hester  Lowry,  his  wife. 
Letty  Lowry,  their  daughter. 

Scene:  A  room  in  tenements,  late  at  night.  William 
Lowry  sits  with  his  coat  off,  in  an  armchair,  smoking, 
and  reading  a  newspaper.  21ie  door  opens,  and 
Hester  Lowry  enters.  Over  her  arm  is  a  basket, 
laden  with  purchases,  which  she  lays  on  the  table  with 
a  sigh. 

William.     You're  late  to-night. 
You  should  have  let  me  come  with  you  : 
That  basket's  heavy,  wife. 

Hester.     'Twas  not  the  basket,  William  : 
I  was  kept. 

William.     What  kept  you,  wife  ? 
The  shops  would  not  be  thronged,  to-night. 

Hester.     I  finished  with  the  shops,  three  hours  ago. 
I  had  to  wait  my  turn. 

William.     Your  turn  ? 
Who  kept  you  waiting  ? 

Hester.     The  doctors,  husband. 

*54 


THE   OPERATION 

William.     Doctors,  wife? 

Hester.     I  thought  'twas  time  to  have  the  thing  away  ; 
And  so,  I  went  to  see. 
The  doctors  shook  their  heads  ; 

And  said,  next  week,  it  might  have  been  too  late  .  .  . 
William.     Too  late  ?    What  ails  you,  wife  ?     I  never 

knew  .   .  . 
Hester.     They  say  it's  cancer. 
They  were  very  kind ; 
And  wanted  me  to  stay,  to-night, 
And  have  it  done,  at  once. 
They'd  hardly  let  me  leave. 
I  said,  I  must  come  home  to  see  you  first. 
They'll  take  me  in  to-morrow. 

William.     To-morrow,  wife  !     And  I  ...  I  never 
knew. 
You  must  have  guessed,  before  you  went  .   .   . 

Hester.     Yes,  lad ;  I  knew  :  and  'twas  no  shock  to 
me  ; 
I've  known  so  long. 

William.     So  long  !  .  .  .  and  never  told  me  ! 
But,  lass,  the  pain  .   .  . 

Hester.     Aye  ;  it  was  bad  to  bear. 
At  first  I  scarce  could  keep  from  crying  out ; 
But,  as  the  years  went  by  .  .  . 

William.     The  years  !  You've  had  the  pain  for  years  ? 
Hester.     Aye,  off  and  on. 
It's  full  eleven  years,  since  first  I  felt  it. 

William.     And,  from  the  first,  you  knew  .  .   . 

»55 


THE   OPERATION 

Hester.     I  knew. 
My  father  died  of  it. 

William.   Eleven  years  !  And  never  breathed  a  word, 
Nor  murmured  once,  but  patiently  .  .  . 

Hester.     I  come  of  nsherfolk,  who  live  on  patience. 
It's  little  use  for  any  man 
To  be  impatient  with  the  sea. 

William.     And  I  ...   I  never  guessed. 
I've  seen  you,  day  by  day, 
And  slept,  each  night,  beside  you,  in  the  bed  ; 
And  yet,  you  never  breathed  a  word  .  .  . 

Hester.     Nay,  lad ;  I've  kept  the  thing  from  you  : 
'Twould  not  have  eased  the  pain  to  share  it. 
You  slept  the  sounder,  knowing  nothing ; 
Though,  there  were  times  the  gnawing  was  so  bad, 
I  could  have  torn  .  .  . 

William.     And  I  slept  on  unknowing  ! 
You  never  even  wakened  me. 
And  every  little  ache  I've  had, 
I've  made  a  pretty  song  about  it  ! 
Hester.     You've  made  a  song  ! 
And  what  about  the  time  your  arm  was  caught  .  .  . 
Was  caught  in  the  machine,  and  you  were  hanging  .  .   . 
Were  hanging  by  the  flesh,  a  mortal  hour  ! 

William.     Nay  ;  Michael  held  me  up  upon  his  back. 
Hester.     But,    all    that   time    your   arm  was  in    the 
wheels  ; 
And  you  .  .  .  you  never  murmured,  once,  they  say ; 
But,  only  laughed,  and  jested  ; 

156 


THE   OPERATION 

Although  they  had  to  take  a  chisel, 

And  cut  each  cog  out  separately, 

Before  the  flesh  was  freed. 

How  you  could  bear  the  strain  and  jar, 

And  never  once  lose  heart, 

I  cannot  think  ;  and  your  poor  arm  .  .  . 

Your  poor,  poor  arm,  with  all  the  sinews  torn  .  .  . 

William.     I've  never  really  played  the  fiddle  since 
I've  got  to  make  the  notes,  that  used  to  come. 
But  you.  wife,  all  these  years  .  .  . 
And  I  slept  on  .  .  • 

Hester.     'Twould  not  have  eased  .  .  . 
William.     But,  if  I'd  known, 
You  should  have  had  the  doctor,  at  the  first. 

Hester.     I  knew  you  could  not  spare  me  then  : 
Those  were  not  easy  times  ! 
You,  laid  off  idle  through  your  accident, 
And  Letty,  but  a  baby  : 
And  we  had  both  enough  to  do, 
To  keep  the  home  together. 
I  hoped,  at  least,  to  keep  things  going; 
Till  I  should  be  past  doing  things. 
The  time  has  come  .  .  . 
But  I  .   .   .  I've  saved  a  bit : 
And  Letty' s  thirteen  past, 
And  finished  schooling, 
And  old  enough  to  manage  for  you. 
Is  she  in  bed  ? 

William.     She  went  an  hour  ago. 

*57 


THE    OPERATION 

She  wanted  sorely  to  wait  up  for  you ; 
But  she  was  sleepy,  so  I  wouldn't  let  her. 

Hester.     Aye,  she's  been  at  ir  all  day  long ; 
And  she's  a  handy  lass, 
And  will  do  well  enough  for  you, 
Until  .  .  .  until  .   .   . 

William.     Does  Letty  know  ! 

Hester.     Nay,  she  knows  nothing,  William  ; 
And  I'll  not  tell  her  now  till  morninsr. 
I  would  not  spoil  her  sleep. 
Poor  child,  she  little  dreams  ! 
But  she's  a  plucky  girl, 
And  I  have  taught  her  everything  : 
And  she  can  cook,  and  scrub,  and  wash, 
As  well  as  any  woman. 
You'll  scarcely  miss  me  .  .  . 

William.     Wife  ! 

Hester.     I've  seen  to  all  your  clothes, 
And  there  are  shirts  and  stockings 
To  last  for  many  weeks, 
To  last  until  .  .  . 
I  mayn't  be  long  away. 

William.        O,     wife,     it's     terrible  ...  I     cannot 
think  .  .  . 
It  seems  so  strange  that  all  these  years  .  .  . 

Hester.     You  never  saw  my  father  : 
He  suffered  long,  poor  fellow, 
But  never  rightly  knew  that  it  was  cancer, 
Till  very  nigh  the  end. 

158 


THE   OPERATION 

It  laid  him  low  at  last, 

When  he  was  far  from  home, 

After  the  herring  in  the  Western  seas. 

The  doctor  said  he  must  return  by  train, 

But  he'd  not  leave  his  boat ; 

And  so  his  mates  set  sail, 

(The  season  just  begun, 

And  catches  heavier  than  they'd  been  for  years) 

And  brought  him  home. 

And,  when  the  "  Ella"  neared  the  harbour, 

He  left  his  bunk,  and  took  the  tiller, 

And  brought  her  in  himself. 

Though,  in  his  heart,  he  knew  it  was  the  last  time, 

Yet  he'd  a  smile  for  us ; 

And  when  the  boat  was  berthed, 

He  looked  my  mother  bravely  in  the  eyes, 

And  clasped  her  hand,  and  they  went  home  together. 

He  never  rose  again  : 

The  doctors  could  do  nothing  : 

But  he  was  brave  and  gay  until  the  end ; 

And  always  smiled,  and  said  it  did  not  hurt, 

Although  his  teeth  were  clenched, 

And  his  strong  fingers  clutched  the  bedclothes  tightly. 

William.     And  you're  his  daughter,  wife  ! 

Hester.      But   I've   cried   out   before    I'm   hurt   too 
sorely. 
Next  week,  the  doctors  said,  it  might  have  been  .  .  . 
It's  taken  in  the  nick  of  time, 
And  I  will  soon  be  well  again. 


THE   OPERATION 

Folk  go  through  such,  and  worse,  each  day  : 
It's  naught  to  make  a  fuss  about. 
I've  only  one  more  night  to  bear  the  pain  .  .   . 
And  then  .  .  . 

William.     Aye,  wife,  you'll  soon  be  well  again, 
With  such  a  heart  in  you. 
And  yet,  if  you  had  gone  too  long  .   .   . 
You  should  have  told  me  at  the  first, 
And  let  us  fend  .  .  . 

Hester.     My  father  brought  his  boat  in. 

\TIie  inner  door  opens ;  and  Letty  stands 
i7i  the  doorway  ^  in  her  nightdress.] 
Letty.     Is  mother  not  home  yet  ? 
Oh,  there  you  are  ! 
You  stayed  so  long  to-night, 
I've  been  asleep  and  dreaming  ! 
Oh,  such  a  dreadful  dream  ! 
I  dreamt  that  you.  .  . 
But  you  are  safe  and  sound  ! 
You  are  not  ailing,  mother  ? 

Hester.     Lass,  I'm  as  well  as  I  have  been  for  years. 
But  you'll  catch  cold  : 
You'd  better  get  to  bed  again. 
Letty.     But,  I  shall  dream. 
Hester.     Nay,  you'll  sleep  sound,  to-night. 

[Letty  hisses  her  father  and  mother  good-night \ 
and  goes  back  to  the  bedroom?^ 


i6q 


THE   CALL 

Persons:  Seth  Herdmax,  a  fireman. 
Mary  Herdmax,  his  mother. 
Christopher  Bell,  a  fireman. 

Scene :  The  engine-house  of  a  fire-station.  The  men  arc 
gathered  in  knots,  talking  in  subdued  voices,  scarcely 
audible  above  the  racket  of  the  street.  Seth  Herd- 
man  paces  backwards  and  forwards^  impetuously,  by 
himself  when  Christopher  Bell  approaches  him 
holding  out  his  hand. 

Christopher.     The  best  of  luck  ! 
Seth.     I  fear  there's  little  hope. 
Christopher.     Nay,  keep  your  heart  up.     You  can 
never  tell. 
When   my  first  lass  was  born,  my  wife  had  long  been 

ailing  : 
There  seemed  to  be  no  chance  for  her  : 
And  now,  though  she's  the  mother 
Of  six  brave,  sonsy  lasses, 
She's  heartier  than  she's  been  in  all  her  life. 
Seth.     The  doctor  says  .  .  . 

Christopher.     But  even  doctors  don't  know  every- 
thing. 

161  m 


THE   CALL 

Your  wife  was  always  plucky, 
And  she'll  surprise  them  yet. 
You  must  be  plucky,  too. 

Your  mother  tends  her — and  you  know  your  mother  ! 
And  only  think,  if  all  goes  well  upstairs, 
How  proud  you'll  be  ! 
For  I'm  a  father,  and  I  know. 
There's  not  a  prouder  man  in  all  the  world. 
Seth.     If  all  goes  well  .  .  . 
Christopher.     You'll  be  the  happiest  man  .  .  . 
There'll  be  no  doing  with  you  ! 
Seth.     If  I  but  knew  ! 
Christopher.     The  waiting's  a  sore  trial. 
But  think,  what  luck  we're  not  called  out  to-night  ! 
it  would  be  hard  to  go  .  .  . 

Seth.     It's  harder  still  to  stand  here,  doing  nothing, 
While  she  ...  I'd  bear  it  better, 
If  only  I'd  a  job  to  tackle — 
A  job  that  left  no  time  for  thinking. 
I'd  rather  be  upon  a  blazing  roof, 
Than  standing  idle,  with  such  thoughts  at  work, 
While  she  .  .  . 

Christopher.     Aye,  lad,  I  understand. 
Uncertainty's  the  devil. 
But  dwell  upon  the  lucky  chance, 
And  maybe,  'twill  be  yours  : 
And  then  you'll  be  the  happiest  of  men. 
You  cannot  think  the  difference  children  make  : 
No  house  is  home,  unless  there's  children  in  it, 

162 


THE    CALL 

My  girls  are  always  in  my  mind  : 

And  yet,  whenever  I  go  in, 

It's  fresh  delight  to  see  them, 

And  take  them  in  my  arms. 

They're  more  to  me  than  I  can  tell  you ; 

I'm  always  dull  at  saying 

The  thing  that's  in  my  heart  : 

But  they  have  brought  so  much  to  me, 

And  just  made  all  the  difference  to  my  life — 

Aye,  to  my  life  and  work — 

For  now  I've  them  to  work  for. 

Though  I  was  never  slack,  they  hearten  me  ; 

And  when  I  hear  the  cry 

That  there  are  children  in  a  burning  house, 

I  always  think  of  them, 

And  see  their  faces  in  the  flames, 

Their  arms  stretched  out  to  me : 

And  hear  their  little  voices  calling,  "  Daddy  ! " 
Then  naught  could  hold  me  back. 

Seth.     Aye,  you  were  always  reckless. 
Christopher.     Not   reckless,  lad.      No   father  dare 
be  reckless. 

Upon  the  toppling  walls, 

Amid  the  flames  and  smoke, 

I  always  know  they're  'waiting  me  at  home  ; 

That  I  must  win  through  all  to  them. 

And  when  at  last,  perhaps  at  dawn, 

I'm  free  to  cross  my  threshold, 

Drenched,  stifled,  scorched  and  scalded, 

163  M  2 


THE  CALL 

To  see  them  lying  quietly, 
In  dreamless  slumber,  clean  and  sweet ! 
Seth.     If  but  the  bell  would  sound, 
And  call  us  out  to  tackle 
The  biggest  blaze  .  .  . 

Christopher.     Nay,  lad,  you  don't  know  what  you're 
saying. 
That  thought's  not  worthy  of  you  : 
For  you're  no  coward  in  the  face  of  danger. 
The  waiting's  hard  to  bear ; 
But  she  bears  more  than  you. 
Seth.     It's  her  I  think  of; 
She  bears  all  .  .  .  while  I  .  .  . 
I  can  do  nothing  .  .  .  nothing  ! 
The  doctor  said  .  .  .  Ah,  God  ! 
If  she  should  not  win  through  ! 

Christopher.     Lad,  at  the  worst,  I  know  that  you'll 
be  brave. 
But,   see,  your  mother  .  .  .  Courage  ! 

[Mary  Herdman  enters  hurriedly,  and  goes  up  to 
Seth,  and  takes  him  in  tier  arms,  without  speaking.] 
Seth.     Mother ! 
Mary.     My  son  ! 
Seth.     Is  there  no  hope  ? 
Mary.     The  babe's  alive. 

Seth.     And  she  .  .  .  and  she  .  .  .      [7  he  fire  alarm 
sounds,  and  all  the  men  spring  to  the  engine.'] 
Thank  God,  there's  work  ! 
Come,  lads. 

164 


THE   WOUND 

Persons :     Hetty  Drover,  Phillip  Drover's  wife. 
Susan  Welch,   her  mother. 
John  Riddle,  a  ship's  riveter. 

Scene:  A  room  in  tenements.  Hetty  Drover  stands  near 
the  window \  gazing  out  with  unseeing  eyes.  She  has 
a  wound  on  her  brow,  and  anotJier  on  her  hand ;  but 
seems  oblivious  of  them.  A  footstep  on  the  stairs 
arouses  her ;  a?id  she  hastily  pulls  her  hair  over  her 
brow,  hides  her  hand  beneath  her  apron  ;  and  moves 
towards  the  cradle  in  which  her  baby  is  sleeping.  The 
door  opens  ;  and  Susan  Welch  enters. 

Hetty.     You,  mother  ! 

Susan.     I've  just  come  .  .  . 
Why,  daughter,  whats  amiss? 
You  look  so  pale  .  .  . 
And,  oh  !  your  brow  is  bleeding — 
A  dreadful  wound  .   .   . 
Nay  !  do  not  touch  it,  v.-oman. 
Your  hand  bleeds,  too  ! 

i  6; 


THE  WOUND 

Hetty.     It's  nothing. 

Susan.     Nothing ! 
A  wound  like  that — you  call  it  nothing  ! 
But,  I  must  bind  it  up,  instead  of  talking. 
Words  won't  heal  wounds, 
Though,  often  they're  the  cause  of  them. 

[She  takes  some  old  line?i  from  a  drawer ;  fills  a 
basin  with  water,  and  washes,  and  binds  the 
wound  while  she  is  talking?\ 
Ah,  what  a  gash  !  your  poor,  poor  brow  ! 
How  you  could  come  by  such  a  wound, 
I  cannot  think  .  .  . 

Hetty.     I  fell. 

Susan.     You  fell  ?     How  did  you  come  to  fall  ? 

Hetty.     I  hardly  know. 

Susan.     You  hardly  know  ? 

Hetty.     I  think  I  must  have  slipt ;   and  struck  the 
fender ; 
And  clutched  the  bars,  in  falling  : 
My  hand  is  burnt, 
Although  I  did  not  feel  it  then. 

Susan.     You  think  you  slipt  !     And  then  you  call  it 
nothing — 
A  wound  like  that,  clean  to  the  bone  ! 
But,  maybe,  you  are  dazed  a  bit : 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  .   .  . 
When  did  it  happen,  daughter? 

Hetty.     Long  ago  .  .  . 

Susan.     It  cannot  be  so  long;   the  wound  still  bleeds. 

166 


THE   WOUND 

Hetty.     Long  .  .  .  long  ago  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying  ! 
An  hour  ago,  perhaps. 

Susan.     An  hour  ago  ?     Then  Phillip  had  not  gone  ? 
Hetty.     Nay  .  .  .  he'd  not  gone  .  .  . 
Susan.     How  comes  it  that  he  left  you,  lass, 
In  such  a  state  as  this  ? 

Hetty.     Oh,  but  I'm  dazed  ! 
And  don't  know  what  I'm  saying. 
He'd  left,  long,  long  before. 

Susan.     What  set  him  off  so  early  ? 
He  hasn't  far  to  go. 
The  Yard  would  scarce  be  open. 

Hetty.     I  don't  know  why  he  went. 
Perhaps,  he  thought  he'd  take  a  turn  .  .  . 
Susan.     On  such  a  morning,  daughter  ! 
Hetty.     Why  not  ?     A  drop  or  two  of  rain 
Is  neither  here  nor  there  with  menfolk. 
'Twould  take  a  pretty  splash,  I  fancy, 
To  keep  my  man  indoors. 
But,  I  know  nothing  where  he  went. 
I  only  know  he'd  gone  .  .  .  long,  long  before  .  .  . 
Why,  woman,  can  you  think  he'd  go — 
He'd  go,  and  leave  me  lying, 
Half-senseless,  on  the  hearth ; 

And  never  turn  .   .  .  though  I  .   .  .  though  I  .  .  . 
But  he  had  gone,  long,  long  before  I  tumbled. 
He  kissed  me  .   .  .  ere  he  went ; 
He  always  kisses  .   .   . 

1  0  7 


THE   WOUND 

Aye,  and  his  babe, 

He  kissed  the  babe  and  took  it  in  his  arms ; 

For,  he's  the  best  of  fathers  ; 

He  loves  his  babe  .  .  .  he's  never  harsh  with  it. 

I  thought  of  that,  while  I  lay,  listening 

For  his  return  .  .  . 

Susan.      For   his   return?      You   thought  he'd  come 
again  ? 

Hetty.     I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying  ! 
How  could  he  come,  when  he'd  been  long  at  work  ? 
And  knowing  nothing  .   .  . 

Susan.     Still  .  .  . 

Hetty.     You  don't  believe  me,  mother  ? 

Susan.     I  scarce  know  what  to  think. 

Hetty.     When  did  I  ever  lie  to  you, 
That  you  should  doubt  .  .  . 

Susan.     Nay ;  you've  been  always  truthful ; 
But  Phillip  .  .  . 

Hetty.     Can  you  think  he'd  go, 
And  slam  the  door  behind  him, 
And  leave  me,  lying  helpless  .  .  . 
But  you  .  .  . 

Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that ; 
What  can  I  say  .  .  . 

Susan.     Say  nothing,  daughter. 

Hetty.     You  don't  believe  me,  mother  ? 

Susan.     I  know  that  Phillip's  hot,  at  times ; 
And  you  would  screen  him. 

Hetty.     Nay  !   there's  naught  to  screen. 

168 


THE   WOUND 

'Twas  I  that  .  .  .  Nay  ! 

And,  if  he's  hot,  at  times, 

You  know  he's  much  to  try  him ; 

The  racket  that  he  works  in,  all  day  long, 

Would  wear  the  best  of  tempers. 

Why,  mother,  who  should  know  as  well  as  you 

How  soon  a  riveter  is  done  ? 

The  hammers  break  a  man,  before  his  time  ; 

And  father  was  a  shattered  man  at  forty ; 

And  Phillip's  thirty-five ; 

And  if  he's  failed  a  bit  .  .  . 

And,  sometimes,  overhasty, 

Well,  I  am  hasty,  too  ; 

You  know  my  temper ;  no  one  knows  it  better. 

Susan.     But,  such  a  wound  !     And  then  to  leave  .  .   . 

Hetty.     You  do  not  dare  to  look  me  in  the  eyes, 
And  say  you  think  he  struck  .  .  . 

Susan.     There's  someone  at  the  door  j  I'll  open  it. 

[She  goes  to  the  door,  and  throws  it  open.  John- 
Riddle  steps  int  but  hesitates  on  the  thres- 
hold without  speaking?^ 

Susan.     Why,  John,  you  here  ? 
Are  you  not  working,  then  ? 

John.     Aye  ...  I  am  working,  Susan. 
I've  only  left  the  Yard  .  .  .  I've  come  .  .  . 

Hetty.     Oh,  tell  me  what  has  happened  ! 
Wrhy  don't  you  speak  ! 

Will  you  stand  there,  all  day,  and  never  speak  .  .  . 

169 


THE   WOUND 

John.     I've  that  to  say  which  is  not  spoken  easily, 
Nor  easy  hearing  for  a  wife. 

Hetty.     Speak  out !     Speak  out ! 
You  know  that  I'm  no  coward. 
Speak!     Where  is  Phillip?     Speak! 

John.     They're  bringing  him  along. 

Susan.     Ah,  God  ! 

Hetty.     They're   bringing   him  .  .  .    And    I  .  . 
lay,  and  listened  .   .  . 

Susan.     How  did  it  happen  ? 

John.     How  ?     I  scarcely  know, 
Though  I  was  face  to  face  with  him ; 
For  he  and  I  were  hammer-mates. 
We  sat  astride  the  beam ; 
And  I  was  chaffing  him ; 
But,  he  was  dazed,  and  silent ; 
And,  when  the  red-hot  rivet  was  thrust  up, 
He  never  struck  at  it ; 
He  must  have  lost  his  nerve ; 
And  so,  I  took  his  turn ; 
And  still  he  did  not  strike ; 
But,  looked  at  it,  bewildered ; 
And,  all  at  once,  cried  out : 
"  It  bleeds  !     It  bleeds!" 

And  then,  his  fingers  slackened  on  the  hammer, 
Which  clattered  to  the  bottom  of  the  ship  : 
And  then,  he  swayed, 
And  tumbled  after  it  .  .  . 
I  tried  to  clutch  .  .  . 

T70 


THE   WOUND 

Susan.     And,  nothing  broke  his  fall  ? 
John.     We  found  him  in  a  heap. 
Susan.     Dead  ? 
John.     At  the  point  of  death  : 
He  scarcely  breathed  a  moment ; 
But,  as  I  bent  down  over  him, 
I  heard  him  whisper  .   .  . 

Hetty.     Spare  me  what  he  said  ! 
I  dare  not  hear  it  .  .  . 
John.     I'd  not  hurt  .  .  . 
Hetty.     Nay  !  Nay  !  speak  out. 
I  am  no  coward  .   .   .  I  .   .  . 
Tell  all,  tell  all. 

John.     There  is  not  much  to  tell. 
He  whispered  :  "  Lass,  forgive  me." 
Then,  he  died. 

Hetty.     Forgive  you,  lad  ! 
There's  nothing  to  forgive. 

'Twas  I  who  angered  you ;  my  foolish  tongue  .   .   . 
It's  I  who  need   .   .  . 
But,  I  ...   I'm  dazed  ; 
And  don't  know  what  I'm  saying  .   .   . 
Nay  !  Nay  !  you  did  not  hear  aright  ! 
He  needed  no  forgiveness. 
Why  should  he  beg  forgiveness, 
Of  me,  his  wife  .   .  .  and  he,  the  best  of  husbands 
And  I  ...  I  lay,  and  listened  for  his  footstep  .  . 
If  he'd  but  turned  ! 
There's  nothing  to  forgive  .  .   . 

171 


THE   WOUND 

'Twas  I  .  .  .  and  now, 

Where  shall  I  seek  forgiveness ! 

Susan.     I  hear  steps  coming  up  the  court. 

John  (starting  forward,  and  catching  Hetty,  as   she 

swoons).     Nay,  steady,  lass  ! 
Hetty.     He's  coming  back. 


172 


SUMMER-DAWN 

Persons:  Laban  Carpenter,  a  hind. 
Betty  Carpenter,  his  wife. 

Scene  ■  Laban  Carpenter's  attg*,  before  dawn.     Laban 

*«s«t;  oil  if  «****  fctffc"  «  newly-htfire. 

In  the  bed,  beside  Laban,  u  a  *«ww«f*  ^  ***?  ; 
on*  £»  ^^  fe/,  <**#«  <*»".  tf?#,nfer  'f 
<K*  */*w» ;  «fe  %*  ^/'^  at  one  endi  **'&**> 

at  the  other. 

Betty.     Come  lad,  get  up,  or  we'll  be  late. 

Laban.     So  soon,  lass!     What  o'clock  is  it  ? 

Betty.     It's  getting  on  for  three. 
The  fire  is  kindling  famously  : 
I'll  have  the  kettle  boiling  in  a  twinkling. 
We'll  have  a  sup  of  tea,  before  we  start, 
To  keep  the  bitter  chill  out. 
It's  raw  work,  turning  out  these  dewy  mornings. 

Laban.     It  seems  but  half-an-hour  ago, 
Since  I  lay  down  in  bed. 

Betty.     Nay,  Laban,  it  was  half-past  ten, 

173 


SUMMER-DAWN 

At  most,  when  you  turned  in. 
You'd  scarcely  got  your  trousers  off, 
Before  you  dropt  asleep  ; 
And,  you  were  snoring,  like  a  pig, 
Until  I  turned  you  off  your  back. 
'Twas  nigh  eleven,  when  I  got  to  bed. 

Laban.     I  can't  tell  how  you  manage. 
A  man  must  have  his  sleep  out, 
If  he's  to  do  his  day's  work  : 
But,  women,  somehow,  seem  .  .  . 

Betty.     Come,  lad,  don't  lie  there,  talking : 
But,  stir  yourself  .   .   . 

Laban.     My  back  is  nearly  broken. 
Betty.     Aye,  some  folks'  backs  are  broken  easily. 
Laban.     You  call  it  easily  ! 
It's  easy,  hoeing  turnips,  every  night, 
Until  it  is  too  dark  to  see  our  feet ; 
And  then,  to  start  again,  at  dawn  : 
And,  Summer-nights  so  short  ! 

Betty.     If  Summer-nights  were  longer, 
Your  children  would  go  shoeless  through  the  Winter. 

Laban.     And  still,  it's  heavy  on  a  man, 
As  well  as  all  his  day's  work. 

Betty.     Have  I  no  day's  work,  too  ? 
Your  day's  work  will  not  keep  you,  housed  and  fed— 
You,  and  your  wife,  and  children. 
And  if  your  father'd  talked  like  that, 
Lad,  where  would  you  be  now  ? 
He  can  have  been  no  lie-abed  : 

174 


SUMMER-DAWN 

He'd  not  a  lazy  bone  in  all  his  body. 

You've  heard  him  boast,  a  hundred  times  : 

"  Though  I  have  had  bad  seasons, 

I've  not  done  far  amiss  : 

Since  I  have  reared  eleven  men  and  women." 

Aye  !  and  your  mother,  crippled  with  rheumatics, 

For  more  than  half  her  lifetime  : 

And  only  him  to  do  the  housework  j 

And  see  to  all  the  lot  of  you, 

And  keep  you  decent,  single-handed, 

Until  the  girls  were  old  enough, 

As  well  as  all  his  day's  work. 

You  talk  of  day's  work  ! 

Why,  I've  heard  him  tell, 

How,  once,  to  save  the  corn, 

He  worked  a  week,  without  a  wink  of  sleep  : 

All  day,  at  his  own  job  in  Stobshill  mine  : 

And,  all  night,  helping  in  the  harvest-field. 
Laban.     And  then,  he  slept  .  .  . 
Betty.     He  slept  his  fill  : 

But,  not  till  all  was  harvested. 

He  saved  the  corn. 

Laban.     Aye  :  somehow,  fathers  .   .  . 
Betty.     You're  a  father,  too  : 

And  should  think  shame  to  lie  and  grumble  there ; 

And  only  be  too  glad  that  we  are  able, 

To  earn  a  little  extra  in  the  Summer, 

To  tide  us  over  Winter. 
Laban.     True,  wife,  true  : 

175 


SUMMER-DAWN 

And  yet,  it's  hard  that,  in  an  honest  day's  work, 
A  strong  man  cannot  earn  enough, 
To  keep  his  wife  and  family. 

Betty.     Twelve  shillings  won't  go  far, 
With  rents  so  high, 
And  food,  and  clothes,  and  firing. 
But  I  have  naught  to  grumble  at : 
I  only  have  six  babes  to  feed  : 
My  mother  had  thirteen  ; 
And  ten  of  us  were  born, 
After  my  father  lost  his  sight, 
While  blasting  in  the  quarry. 
And  she'd  three  babes-in-arms,  at  once — 
The  twins,  and  Dick. 

I've  heard  her  say  that,  ere  the  boy  was  born, 
While  she  lay  sick  in  bed,  and  near  her  time, 
Her  two,  poor  helpless  babies  at  the  bed-foot, 
Sat  up,  with  big  eyes,  watching  her, 
As  good  as  gold  ; 
And  she,  poor  woman,  wondering, 
How  ever  she  would  nurse  the  three,  at  once. 
I  cannot  think  how  she  got  through,  at  all : 
But,  when  I  used  to  ask  her,  she  would  answer  : 
"  Aye  !  looking  back,  you  wonder  how  you  managed  ; 
But,  at  the  time,  each  single  thing  you  do  for  them 
Makes  you  yourself  so  happy, 
That  you  think  nothing  of  it." 
And  mother  had  the  truth  of  things. 
And  we're  quite  rich  to  her — 

176 


SUMMER-DAWN 

She'd  hoe,  a  summer's  day  for  sixpence  : 

And  spent  her  life's  best  years  in  picking  stones. 

She  only  had  one  holiday, 

That  ever  I  heard  tell  of : 

And  that,  when  she'd  been  married  fourteen  years. 

She  went  to  see  her  cousin  at  the  Stell : 

And  rode  both  ways  in  Farmer  Thomson's  pig-cart ; 

And,  ever  afterwards,  she  said  : 

She  couldn't  tell  why  folks  liked  holidays, 

Or  why  they  need  go  seeking  happiness, 

While  they  had  homes  to  work  in  ; 

And  that,  for  her  part,  she  found  little  pleasure 

In  sitting  still  all  day, 

In  other  people's  houses,  with  cold  legs, 

And  idle,  folded  hands, 

When  there  was  darning  to  be  done  at  home, 

And  one's  own  hearth  to  sit  by  ; 

Though  there  was  little  sitting  down  for  her, 

At  any  time  at  all. 

She  couldn't  rest  : 

Up  first,  and  last  to  bed, 

I  never  saw  her  quiet,  till  the  end. 

She  always  hoped  that  death  would  find  her  working, 

Her  wish  was  granted  her  .   .  . 

Death  found  her  at  the  job  she  liked  the  best  .  .  . 

The  clothes  she  washed  that  week  were  left  for  me  to 

iron  .  .  . 
Aye,  mother  knew  what  hardship  was  ; 
And  laboured,  day  and  night,  to  rear  her  children. 

177  N 


SUMMER-DAWN 

Laban.     It's  ever  children,  children  ! 
A  woman  slaves  her  very  life  away 
To  rear  her  children  ; 

And  they  grow  up  and  slave  their  lives  away 
To  rear  their  children. 
We  little  thought,  lass,  when  we  married  ! 
Do  you  remember  the  fine  Summer-nights, 
When  first  we  walked  together  ? 
Ah,  those  were  happy  times  ! 
We  little  thought  .  .  . 

Betty.     You  little  thought ; 
I  knew. 

Yes  ;  those  were  happy  times  ; 
No  girl  was  ever  happier  than  I  was, 
When  first  I  walked  with  you  in  Maiden  Meadows 
But  I  am  happy  now,  for  all  the  difference. 
Life  was  not  over  easy,  even  then : 
They  worked  me  sorely  at  the  farm, 
Though  I  was  but  a  child. 
On  Monday  mornings,  we  were  up  at  one, 
To  get  the  washing  through, 
Before  the  day's  work  started. 
I  wasn't  fifteen  then  ;  but  I  remember 
The  coastguards  whistling  to  us, 
As  they  passed  the  lighted  window, 
On  the  cold,  black  Winter-mornings. 
And  often,  I'd  been  working  many  hours, 
Before  you  turned  out  with  your  team. 
I  used  to  think  that  you  went  bravely,  Laban, 

178 


SUMMER-DAWN 

Behind  your  dappled  horses. 

Laban.     Aye  !  then  I  little  knew — 
I  little  knew  that  life  was  labour,  labour, 
And  labour  till  the  end. 

I  thought  that  there'd  be  ease,  somewhere.     \Rises  and 
begins  to  dress.] 

Betty.     If  men  will  marry,  and  have  children, 
They  must  not  look  for  ease. 
Yet,  husband,  you'd  not  be  a  boy  again, 
Un wedded  .  .  . 

Laban.     Nay  !  I  couldn't  do  without  you. 

Betty.     But,  you've  too  many  children  ? 
Too  many  hungry  mouths  to  fill, 
Too  many  little  feet  to  keep  in  leather  ! 
And  can  you  look  upon  them,  sleeping  there, 
(My  father  ne'er  set  eyes  on  me,  poor  fellow  !) 
And  talk  like  that  ? 

And  is  it  Tommy  you  would  be  without  ? 
You've  had  him  longest;  and  perhaps  you're  tired  .   . 

Laban.     Nay,  wife  :  he  was  the  first ; 
And  you  were  such  a  girl — just  seventeen  ! 
And  I,  but  two  years  older. 
Do  you  remember,  lass,  how  proud  .  .   . 

Betty.     Or    is    it    Nell,    who    brings    your    bait    to 
you  ? 

Laban.     She  grows  more  like  her  mother  every  day. 

Betty.     It  must  be  Robin,  then, 
That  all  the  neighbours  say  takes  after  you. 

Laban.     He's  got  my  temper,  sure  enough, 

179  N     2 


SUMMER-DAWN 

The  little  Turk  ! 

Betty.     Or  Kit  and  Kate  the  twins  ? 
They're  surely  twice  too  much  for  you. 

Laban.     Folk  say  that  never  such  a  pair 
Was  seen  in  all  the  countryside. 

Betty.     There's  just  the  baby  left. 
Poor  little  mite,  so  you're  the  one  too  many  ! 

Laban.     Come,  Betty,  come  ! 
Enough  of  teasing  ! 
You  know  that  I  was  only  talking ; 
I'm  ready,  now,  for  work. 

Betty.     The  kettle's  boiling.     [S/ie  makes  the  tea,  and 
fills  two  mugs.] 
Drink  it  up  ; 
'Twill  help  to  keep  the  chill  out. 

Laban.     Aye  ;  but  its  dank  work,  hoeing  swedes   at 
dawn. 

Betty.     The  sun  will  soon  be  up. 

Laban.     The  sun  gets  up  a  deal  too  soon  for  me. 

Betty.     Nay ;  never  rail  against  the  sun. 
I'd  sooner,  lad,  be  shut  away  from  you, 
Than  from  the  sunshine,  any  day. 
I'll  never  hear  a  word  against  the  sun. 

[They  take  up  their  hoes  from  behind  the  door, 
give  a  last  look  at  their  sleeping  children,  and 
go  otit  together  into  the  dawn?\ 


180 


HOLIDAY 


Persons :  Eva  Spark,  a  widow. 
Nelly  Spark, 
Polly  Spark, 
Daniel  Webb,  a  navvy. 


'  \her  daughters. 

v.  J 


Scene:  a  room  in  te?iements :  evening.  Nelly  Spark  lies 
unconscious  on  the  bed  with  her  eyes  open  and  her  hands 
moving  in  a  regular  succession  of  mechanical  motions. 
Her  mother  sits  by  the  bed  sewing.  Polly  Spark 
stands  near  the  window  looking  out  into  the  dingy 
court. 

Eva.     Her  hands  are  never  quiet. 

Polly.     She's  tending  the  machine  ; 
And  slipping  in  the  brush-backs 
As  we  do  all  day  long. 
Day  after  day,  and  every  day, 
Year  in,  year  out,  year  in,  year  out, 
Save  Sunday  and  the  holiday  .  .  . 
To  think  to-day's  a  holiday — 
And  what  a  holiday  for  her  ! 

Eva.     She  cannot  rest  a  moment. 
Her  hands  are  working,  working  .  .  . 

18* 


HOLIDAY 

It  must  be  weary  work,  at  best ; 
But  now  .  .  . 

Polly.     And  yet  we  do  it,  < 
Year  in,  year  out,  year  in,  year  out, 
Until  it  drives  us  dizzy, 
And  we,  maybe,  slip  in  a  hand  as  she  did 
Six  holes  it  drills — 
And  then  they  call  it  carelessness  ! 

Eva.     Aye  !  that  began  the  trouble — 
Her  poor  hand ! 

It  gives  me  quite  a  turn  to  think  of  it. 
She's  never  been  herself  since. 
It's  hard  she  cannot  rest. 

Polly.     To  think  to-day's  a  holiday  ! 
And  last  year  she  was  dancing  .  .  . 

Eva.  She's  ever  been  a  dancer, 
From  a  baby : 

Aye  !  even  as  a  child-in-arms, 
I  could  not  keep  her  quiet, 
If  she  but  heard  an  organ  ; 
And  though  'twas  half  a  street  away, 
'Twould  take  me  all  my  time  to  hold  her 
From  tumbling  off  my  lap. 
'Twas  in  her  blood  ; 
I  danced  before  I  married — 
Though  afterwards,  God  knows, 
I'd  little  list  for  dancing — 
And,  in  my  day, 
While  I'd  the  heart  for  it, 

I$2 


HOLIDAY 

I  danced  among  the  best. 
When  first  your  father  saw  me, 
I  was  dancing. 

Polly.     Last  year,  she  danced  the  live-long  day 
She  danced  us  all  out  easily, 
Although  the  sun  was  blazing  • 
And  we  were  fit  to  drop. 
She  would  have  danced  herself  to  death  ; 
But,  someone  stopped  the  music — 
I  think  'twas  Daniel — 
Even  he  was  done, 
Though  he's  not  beaten  easily. 

Eva.     He'd  scarcely  go  to-day. 
He  said,  he  could  not  go  without  her. 
I  told  him  that  'twas  worse  than  useless 
For  him  to  sit  here,  watching  her. 
I  think  he  only  went,  at  last, 
Because  he  could  not  bear  to  see  her  hands. 
It's  bad  enough  for  me  .  .  . 
I  could  not  have  him,  too  .   .  . 
I  cannot  help  but  watch  .  .  . 
Her  poor,  poor  hands  ! 
They're  never  still  a  moment. 
All  night,  I  watched  them  working. 

Polly.     And,  last  year,  she  was  dancing — 
Was  dancing  in  the  sun  ! 
And  there  was  none  could  dance  with  her — 
Not  one  ! 

I  never  knew  where  she  could  pick  the  steps  up  : 

183 


HOLIDAY 

There  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  them, 

As  though  she  made  them  up  as  she  went  on. 

They  came  to  her,  I  fancy, 

As  trudging  comes  to  us. 

Eva.     Aye  !  she'd  a  dancing  heart. 

Polly.     You  scarcely  saw  her  feet  move, 
Because  they  went  so  quickly  : 
It  dazzled  me  to  watch  them. 
And,  as  she  danced  so  madly, 
She  waved  a  branch  of  hawthorn 
That  Daniel  plucked  for  her. 

Eva.     That  night  when  she  came  home, 
Her  arms  were  full  of  blossom. 
The  room  was  white  for  days : 
She'd  scarcely  left  a  pot  or  pan 
For  me  to  cook  a  meal  in  : 
And,  yet,  I  dared  not  toss  it  out. 
The  scent  was  nigh  too  much  for  me  : 
A  hawthorn  grew  beside  the  door  at  home ; 
And,  in  the  drenching  rain, 
It  used  to  smell  so  fresh  and  sweet. 
'Twill  be  there  still  .  .  .  but  I  .  .  . 
And  she  was  born  about  the  blossom-time ; 
For  I  remember  how  I  lay, 
And  dreamt  that  I  could  smell  the  hawthorn, 
Though  we  had  left  the  country  then, 
And  I  was  far  from  any  blowing  thing. 
And  I  can  smell  it  now, 

Though  I've  not  seen  a  growing  thorn  for  years. 

184 


HOLIDAY 

Polly.     The  smell  of  hawthorn,  and  the  heat, 
Together,  turned  me  faint. 
She  did  not  seem  to  mind  it ; 
But,  danced,  till  I  was  dizzy — 
Quite  dizzy,  watching  her  : 
And,  when  I  called  to  stop  her, 
She  only  laughed,  and  answered  : 
That  she  could  dance  for  ever — 
For  ever  in  the  sunshine, 
Until  she  dropt  down  dead. 
Then  Daniel  stopped  the  music, 
Suddenly  .  .  . 
Her  feet  stopt  with  it : 
And,  she  nearly  tumbled  : 
But,  Daniel  caught  her  in  his  arms  : 
And  she  was  dazed  and  quiet  : 
And  scarcely  spoke  a  word, 
Till  we  were  home  in  bed, 
And  I  had  blown  the  light  out. 
I  did  not  take  much  notice  at  the  time  : 
For  I  was  half-asleep  : 
Yet,  I  remember  every  word, 
As  though  she  said  them  over,  lying  there : 
"  At  least,  I've  danced  a  day  away  ! 
To-morrow,  we'll  be  working — 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Till  we're  dead. 
And  yet,  to-day, 
The  job  was  nearly  done  : 

185 


HOLIDAY 

If  they'd  not  stopt  the  music, 
I  might  have  finished,  dancing  ! " 

Eva.     Her  hands  are  never  quiet : 
They're  always  working,  working  .  .  . 
They  move  so  quickly, 
I  can  scarcely  follow  .  .  . 

Polly.     She  always  worked  like  that : 
Indeed,  the  only  wonder  is 
She'd  never  slipt  her  hand  before. 
She  worked  as  madly  as  she  danced : 
And  she  danced  madly. 

Eva.     Aye  .  .  .  she'll  dance  no  more. 
Poor  Daniel,  I'd  no  heart  to  tell  him, 
That  there  .  .  .  that  there's  no  hope  for  her. 
He  never  asked  me  what  the  doctor  said  : 
I  think  he  knew,  somehow. 
He'd  scarcely  go  : 

But,  he  .  .  .  he  could  not  bear  to  see  .  .  . 
I  cannot  bear  to  watch  them  ; 
Yet,  cannot  keep  my  eyes  off : 
They're  always  working,  working — 
Poor  broken  hands  ! 

And,  once,  they'd  beat  to  music,  on  my  breast, 
When  she  was  but  a  baby  in  my  lap. 
Would  God,  that  time  had  never  passed  .  .  . 

Polly.     To  think  they'll  all  be  dancing. 
While  she  .  .  .  she's  lying  .  .  . 

Eva.     Daniel  went,  poor  lad ; 
But,  he  was  loth  to  go ; 

186 


HOLIDAY 

And  there'll  be  little  dancing, 

For  him,  to-day, 

And  many  days  to  come. 

He'll  not  stay  late  : 

I  looked  for  him,  ere  now. 

Polly.     Aye  !  we  are  only  "hands." 
And,  in  the  end  .  .  . 
I  wonder  if  I'll  lie  like  that,  one  day, 
With  useless  fingers  working  .  .  . 
God  spare  me  ! 

But,  I  think  there's  little  chance. 
I  never  worked,  or  danced,  as  she  did. 
She  danced,  and  danced  .  .  . 

Eva.     I  smell  the  hawthorn  now,  as  strongly 
As  we  could  smell  it,  after  rain  .  .  . 

Polly.     There's  someone  on  the  stairs  : 
I  think  it's  Dan. 

[The  door  opens,  ge?itly ;  and  Daniel  Webb 
enters,  quietly,  carrying  a  branch  of 
hawthorn .] 

Daniel.     How's  Nelly,  now? 
I've  brought  some  bloom  for  her. 
I  thought  she  might  .  .   . 
Last  year,  she  liked  the  hawthorn  : 
A  year  to-day,  she  danced  beneath  the  blossom  .  .  . 
I  could  not  stay, 
And  see  them  jigging  .  .  . 
And  yet  I  cannot  bear  to  watch  .  .  . 

l§7 


HOLIDAY 

Eva  [turning  suddenly).     Her  hands  have  stopt  ! 
She's  quiet  now  .  .  . 
Ah,  God  ! 
She's  getting  up ! 
She'll  fall  .  .   . 

[They  all  rush  towards  Nelly,  as  she  rises  from 
the  bed  ;  but,  something  in  her  eyes  stays  them 
halfway ;  and  they  stand,  spell-bound, 
watching  her,  as  she  steps  to  the  floor  ;  and 
moves  towards  Daniel,  stretching  out  her 
hand  for  the  hawthorn,  which  he  gives  to 
her  without  a  word.  Holding  the  branch 
over  her  head,  she  begins  to  dance  slowly  ; 
her  feet  gradually  moving  more  rapidly '.] 
Nellv.  Faster  .  .  .  faster  .  .  .  fast  .  .  . 
Who's  stopt  the  music  ? 

[She   pauses ;    stands    a   moment,   dazed;   the?i 
drops  to  the  floor  in  a  heap.] 
Eva  (running  towards  her).     Ah,  God  ! 
She's  done  ! 
She  does  not  breathe  .  .  . 

[They  bend  over  her ;  and  Daniel  picks  up  the 
dropt  branch?^ 
Daniel.     It's  fallen,  now — 
The  bloom  .  .  . 
I  thought  she  might  ,  .  . 
Last  year  .  .  . 
And  now  ! 


I  brought  the  bloom 


1 88 


HOLIDAY 

Eva.     Her  hands  stopt  working, 
When  she  smelt  it. 
It  set  her  dancing  .  .  .  dancing  to  her  death 

Daniel.     Oh,  Christ ! 
What  have  I  done  ! 
Nelly  ! 
I  brought  the  bloom  .   .  . 

Polly.     She's  had  her  wish. 

1908-9 


LONDON  :    PRINTED    BV    WILLIAM    CLOWES    AND   SONS,    LIMITED. 


Extracts  from  some  American  Notices  of ts  Daily 
Bread,"  by  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson. 

'«  There  is  not  one  of  these  seventeen  little  dramas  that  is  not  absolutely 
.imnlein  conception  and  expression.  They  will  reach  and  touch  the  humblest 
Whence  vet  they  will  also  come  home  with  poignant  intensity  to  those  for 
JLom  H.'erltare  f Ta  necessary  part  of  life.  A  superficial  critic  might  call  them 
^  horn  literature, s  a  nee. s.ari  par  artlessness  of  the  most  sincere  and 

formless,  but  in  ^"^J^f^  simpiest  facts  cf  life  contain  the  most  poetry, 

Meal  of  dram»M.  Gibson  has  in  each  case  selected  a  moment  of  crisis  10  a 
Ideal  "'d™1""'  .""•  ",       ,  „  of  interdependent  mortals,     The  action  may 

Hl'eXceithe    in %Stio»  or  ?nlfilment,  as  the  case  maybe..  Once  or  twice 

ass--*  siESMisffi  t  fsszttszsi  "^ 

5£  eta  "its  bes fS We  worf o5f  Mnfe  a"„d  clones  the  saddest  and  darUst 

contrast  ^reveals  the  essential  danger  of  this  tendency,      lhere  i .  portiy  in  c  al 

Si      mKet  confident  of  their  future  as  Mr ;  Gibson,  and  the  reason  of 
his  SncerUy  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  possesses  the  humility  of  high  achievement. 
— Boston  Transcript. 

<•  The -e  is  a  man  in  England  who  (to  quote  Emerson)  with  sufficient  plainness 

masses."— 7%«  Outlook  (New  York). 

"  '  Dailv  Bread'  is  the  title,  good  in  itself,  but  inapt  in  its  common  connota- 
tion oFavery  unusual  book  by  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson.  It  consists .of  seventeen 
K  dramatic  dialogues  in  unrhymed  and  scarcely  metred  verse  each  flashing  a 
cKmarteric moment 5  human  life  out  of  its  -distinguishable  backgrUnda  a 
Sp's  searchlight  picks  out  objects  on  sW  and  lifts  .them  smftly  to  the  cent,  e 
of  the  picture  and  drops  them  back  again  into  tbe  night  And  jetthough^ne 
^'nole  Js  a  scries  of  tragic  incidents,  nowhere  is  a  morbid  note  struct,  ine 
st^u-le  for  da  y  b  eadfin  both  the  material  and  spiritual  sense  o    the ,  word,  is 

clear,  direct  and  dignified,  and  that  fits  his  thought  like  a  glove. 


Tones. 


LONDON  :  ELKIN  MATHEWS,  CORK  STREET,  W. 


Extracts  from  some  American  Notices  of  "  Daily  Bread," 
by  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson — continued, 

"It  has  been  said  that  this  poet  is  satisfied  with  a  seemingly  absolute 
transcript  of  facts,  told  in  the  words  of  the  poor,  and  relying  upon  the  un- 
varnished truth  for  the  effect  he  desires  to  produce.  But  this  would  leave  out 
of  account  one  or  two  poems  in  which  the  dramatic  effect  is  more  nighty 
wrought.     And  for  this  reason  '  The   Night   Shift '  is  perhaps  the  most  powerful 

of  all  these  dramas  in  little This  work  is  one  of  the  signs  of  the  times. 

We  are  going  to  have  more  rather  than  less  of  it.  As  the  world  becomes  more 
industrialised,  the  poets  will  more  and  more  find  their  themes  in  the  mines  and 
the  shops ;  there  will  be  the  tapping  of  picks  and  the  whirring  of  looms  to  take 
the  place  of  the  plaintive  tinkling  of  mandolins." — The  Bookman  (New  York). 


"  Walt  Whitman  predicted  and  preluded  the  coining  of  a  new  order  of 
poets — the  poets  of  modern  democracy — who  would  rind  their  inspiring  themes 
in  the  actual  facts  and  events  of  the  common  lite,  and  especially  in  the  lives,  the 
struggles,  the  failures  and  successes,  the  obscure  but  real  heroisms  of  the  toiiing 
masses  of  men  and  women.  ...  It  is  just  such  lives,  such  tragedies  and 
heroisms,  that  furnish  the  subjects  of  the  little  volume  that  Wilfrid  Wilson 
Gibson  has  recently  given  to  us  under  the  title  '  Daily  Bread.'  It  is  a  book 
of  the  people — 

'  Poems  for  conquered  and  slain  persons, 
And  the  numberless  unknown  heroes,  equal  to  the  greatest  heroes  known.' 

Here  is  a  vast  and  hitherto  unworked  field  for  the  modern  dramatist  and  poet  that 
holds  the  promise  of  a  reward  richer  than  gold.  Mr.  Gibson  has  the  true 
instinct  and  skill  of  the  master.  There  is  nothing  overwrought.  Superficially 
these  dramas  might  seem  to  be  almost  formless.  They  are  not  modelled  on  any 
conventional  canon  of  poetic  construction,  but  at  the  same  time  they  show  a 
true  sense  of  rhythmic  values.  They  are  not  lyrical.  The  writer,  in  this  respect, 
but  follows  the  best  modern  canon  of  dramatic  construction  which  asserts  that 
'  the  proper  function  of  the  poetic  drama  is  not  fundamentally  lyrical,  but  that, 
on  the  contrary,  the  web  of  circumstance  should  be  so  closely  woven  that  the 
lyrical  element— after  all  entirely  personal — is  deliberately  excluded  from  the 
play  as  a  menace  to  unity.'  Underneath  all  the  misery  and  pain  and  all  the 
untoward  circumstances  of  the  lives  of  the  toiling  poor  there  is  the  priceless 
jewel  of  human  love  and  loyalty — the  redeeming  element  of  sacrifice,  conscious 
or  unconscious,  which  denotes  the  divinity  of  man,  and  which  is  more  evident  in 
the  lives  of  the  poor  than  in  those  of  the  well-to-do.  It  is  the  way  in  which  he 
weaves  this  element  of  love  in  its  simple  and  beautiful  unconsciousness  of  itself 
into  each  of  these  exquisite  little  plays  that  marks  Mr.  Gibson  off  as  a  poet  cf 
the  first  rank." — The  Twentieth  Century. 


LONDON  :   ELKIN  MATHEWS,  CORK  STREET,  W. 


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AN     INITIAL     FIN:.     OF     25     CENTS 

™«  »«  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  -O  RETURN 
THIS   BOOK  ON   THE  DATE  DUE.         HE  PENALTY 

nl^  lTr?lASE  T°  5°  CENTS  °N  THE  roURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $i.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


OCT    21  1932 


FE3     9  1933 


FEB  22  1933 


mi  18  icy 

JUN  ^944 

MAY  *946 

<€Jan 
P^C'D  LD 

JAN  29  1958 


a — Jr         CL 


26695? 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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